


Wouldst Thou Say I Do?

by Elysium (Elysium66)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies, F/M, Forced Marriage, Humor, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6691825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysium66/pseuds/Elysium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione never realised that making a deal with the devil meant you had to marry him too. But she soon learns that no good deed goes unpunished... particularly when a Malfoy is involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was D-Day, as they say. Also to be referred to, from here on out, as the day one Hermione Granger committed herself to the grandest of follies on behalf of one of her many causes. With Draco Malfoy. At the end of a long aisle. Surrounded by white, and an equal amount of ignorant smiles and expressions of perplexed astonishment.

It was at the end of this aisle, having blessedly walked without tripping in her very fussy high heeled shoes, that the victim of said folly—or perhaps the perpetrator, depending on whose perspective one sought—tried valiantly to recall just why marrying the very blond, very wealthy and very frustrating man before her had seemed like such a great plan.

It had all started with a vow, rather different to the one she was now about to take, and certainly with more dire consequences should it be broken. It had started with his deviousness and her determination to better a world that apparently didn’t want to be bettered.

As Hermione stood, wobbly-legged, deprived of oxygen from the very tightly bound undergarments beneath her ivory dress, and desperately hungry, she looked to the future. It stood tall before her: all incisive and mocking grey eyes, unnaturally fair complexion and eyelashes too pretty to belong to a male, all of which had been swathed in the most luxurious and expensive fabric to have ever been created by the hands of cruelly enslaved elves.

It, meaning he, the exploiter of elves and harasser of innocent bystanders, her husband-to-be, looked excessively bored by the proceedings. Then again, in her experience, Draco Malfoy looked excessively bored always.

“Granger.” Her internal diatribe against the man before her, whose mouth had started moving, came to a swift halt. “Terribly sorry to drag you away from whatever thrilling analyses you’re pondering… but the Minister has coughed enough times to warrant a stay at St Mungo’s and all for your attention. Care to, oh I don’t know… indulge him?”

She slid a sidelong look toward him, watching his expression for the slightest of seconds before she spotted it. The Sneer. Precisely the expression a young girl always dreamed of seeing upon the face of her dearly beloved right before he said I do. He wasn’t her dearly beloved; he wasn’t even her we’ll-rub-along-alright companion. And as for The Sneer, well it was the primary arrangement of his facial features and so she supposed she had best get used to it, in spite of the way it made her want to throw pointy implements at him.

A cough sounded nearby and, feeling rather guilty, Hermione turned from The Sneer to cast an apologetic look toward the Minister appointed to their marriage ceremony.

“I’m… er, ready.”

“I’m not,” was the muttered response that came from the groom, something she pointedly ignored.

“—in love and in honour,” continued the wizened old man before her. While waxing poetic, he was interrupted by the softest of sounds, likely unheard by the congregated people or the celebrant but certainly by her. Even during their vows, Malfoy couldn’t refrain from demonstrating his disdain for the occasion.

“I do.” It was his voice, succinct. She tuned back in then, casting him a glance to show her shock at him actually going through with the preposterous arrangement.

“And do you, Hermione Granger, take thee…” She honestly tried not to narrow her eyes at the way the saliva seemed to collect in the old man’s mouth, and spray in a wide circumference as he said her name. Perhaps if he had been in control of all his faculties, she might not have missed her cue. As it was the silence around her was deafening, and the cough and glare directed at her from her would-be husband made her jump.

“I… well, I suppose… I do?” There was a definite squeak to her inflection there, and she noted the raised brow that her cohort sent her, which she tried again to ignore.

Her attention was called away now, by the sudden influx of fear and horror at what came next. While Hermione had never been one of those little girls that played with her dolls and imagined wonderful weddings with hypothetical Prince Charmings, she had always thought the man she kissed at her wedding would be someone she actually wanted to kiss.

Not that, she surmised, Draco Malfoy was un-kissable in the strictest sense. It was simply the matter of who he was, and how much it would cost her to know her mouth had pressed against his own. It was too intimate an act, even for such circumstances as these.

Even for her almost-husband. Actual husband now, she corrected.

She swallowed. The sound could probably be heard in the back row, such was the silence and expectation that hummed amongst their guests. This was the moment the gossip mongers had been waiting for. She turned toward him and his look was controlled, as ever.

“Try to look like you’re not at a funeral. I saw the last Weasley wedding photos… surely this is a step up…”

“You—” She was just about to give him a piece of her mind, onlookers be dammed, when she felt his firm fingers catch her chin. His warm mouth was on hers before she could blink away the cobwebs. It was strange how one moment could be both entirely fuzzy to recall, and yet at the same time have occupied such heightened awareness of her senses.

When she pulled back after an appropriately long amount of time to make the kiss look romantic, she tried not to focus on the strange tingling of her mouth. Or the unfamiliar, but well-remembered imprint of his own.

It was not all that difficult to focus on her dislike of him, rather than the softness of his lips, because the familiar and most hated expression was beginning to linger about his features once more. She suspected few people would recognise the very subtle shifting of expressions to convey his utmost disdain. But as a regular recipient of that particular look, she knew it well.

The raised brow and slight curve to his mouth sang of smug amusement, so loud that one might have thought he’d screamed it from the roof tops. Hateful man, she thought.

“You know, I don’t—”

“I’m sure,” he said in that smug tone which irked her. He wasn’t that great a kisser. She just had incredibly low standards.

She turned a wobbly smile toward the crowd, who were cheering, now apparently convinced that the whole extravaganza was not a prank. Amongst the blur of faces, she managed to pick out those of her friends, some proud and excited, others woefully bemused.

She also caught the narrow eyed look of the fair-haired Malfoy matriarch, who was no doubt recounting the many ways Hermione had messed up both the ceremony and her beloved son’s life. She felt quite confident that she would hear all about her many foibles—in eloquent and colourful language—at some point during the evening.

Hermione was loath to admit to fear of anyone or anything, but in truth, Narcissa Malfoy’s supercilious stare made her want to blend in with the many 17th century sculptures of men in loin cloths that lined the rose garden behind her.

“Come little wife, we’d best start heading to the hall to celebrate this momentous occasion.” He cast his mercurial gaze toward her, The Sneer lingering in its depths. He raised a hand to take her own, and when she hesitated he said, “I won’t bite. Well... not you, in any case.”

She cast her own version of the Malfoy stare of utmost disdain at him; she’d always been rather good at it, but she couldn’t deny that time in their company had refined it to an art. “You really are the most obnoxious individual I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter... let alone marry.”

“Make a habit of marrying only partially obnoxious individuals do you, Granger? I suppose I should be grateful then, that you deigned to marry me.” It was a commonly known truth that there was no one person on the planet, Ronald Weasley included, who had quite the same knack for aggravating her as this man.

She raised her chin and ignored the comment, before taking his hand to let him guide her to the vast hall in the South Wing of the Malfoy Manor. She was simply going to rise above provocation, hold her head high for the duration of this marriage and pray to every deity that her new husband would fall fatally into a ditch somewhere.

She wasn’t a naturally violent person, but the prospect of freedom from him and his family was entirely too desirable.

“Now, Granger, though I suppose you’re actually a Malfoy now... frightful to think, really. Do be sure to gaze at me adoringly whilst we’re dancing... and whisper my name breathlessly at every possible opportunity.” He paused to smirk down at her. “After all, you did just marry far out of your league... so you’d best be convincing in your moment of triumph.”

Oh how indeed, she wondered, had life conspired to place her in this most odious situation? She was quite sure that if one stopped to recount how the whole mess had come to be, they would agree it was entirely the fault of Draco Malfoy.


	2. The Vow

...9 months to D-Day...

Hermione Granger suffered the sort of inherent nosiness that almost always got one into trouble. She was exceptionally clever, she knew this to be so, but there was something by way of caution that had been lacking in her genetic makeup. Particularly when it related to curbing an urge to indulge the aforementioned nosiness.

If this weren’t the case, she would have ignored the temptation to follow a remarkably shifty looking Draco Malfoy down Knockturn Alley on that fateful day. She would have continued past the entrance to the dingy and dark turn off. She would have left Diagon Alley, her newly purchased books in tow, and Apparated home for a rare night of reading and relaxation.

Naturally, however, she did none of these things. She was highly conscious of what had happened the last time Malfoy was spotted lurking suspiciously down that alley, when she had disregarded Harry’s very, in retrospect, valid concerns about him. She decided then and there that she was not going to allow for a repeat of that mistake.

This was the justification she employed for what was simply a desire to catch the horrible git up to something untoward. After all, she was very much aware that he, being a reformed Death Eater on extended parole, was liable to be flung into the depths of Azkaban should he be caught in any further illegal activities. And whilst she was not a Law Enforcement Officer, she was a Ministry employee and as such felt honour bound to see what he was up to.

Hermione lingered at the mouth of the alley and watched as he moved, blindingly bright like a beacon for her eye, through the strands of shadow that fell upon the stonework. Despite her very good intentions, she found as she crept further into the darkness of Knockturn Alley that the all pervasive sense of unease made her want to forget the whole thing. She was brave though, and ever so altruistic when there was a cause to be furthered.

This, she decided, was most definitely a cause.

The alley was surprisingly empty for this time of night. The grey light of dusk was darkening to an inkier hue, and generally this meant happy hour for the veritable minefield of creepy individuals that frequented its stone walkways. Hermione was rather grateful for this fact, given her disinclination to encounter any of those sorts of people.

She sped up, her small feet making very little noise as she moved in the shadows following Malfoy’s path. He was easy to distinguish, even from a distance, because of that milk white skin and the pale gleam of his hair. Her breath caught as he stopped ahead and turned to cast a cursory look around him. She pressed firm against a nearby wall, not daring to draw breath.

It was moments like those that reminded her just why she didn’t wear fussy coloured robes on most days. Perhaps it was an innate tendency toward sneaking about under an invisibility cloak which had been cultivated in her youth. In any case, she rather liked to blend in with the crowd, or as was the case now, with the murky environs. It made eavesdropping on unsuspecting, though very much deserving, witches and wizards all the more achievable.

Malfoy clearly decided that no one was aware of his potentially devious behaviour, as he pulled out his wand and muttered a very obscure incantation. Though she could not hear the words on his lips, she could read them in the framing of his mouth. He immediately swept inside the revealed doorway with a swish of his excessively billowy robes.

Hermione had assumed when she first spotted him loitering at the mouth of the alley that his intention was to visit that most sinister shop, Borgin and Burkes to procure dark objects as was the tradition of his forebears. She knew that he would be in hot water if he was found with any sort of dark artefacts in his possession.

She was all the more curious now, and perturbed, because wherever he had gone, it was not Borgin and Burkes. Nor was he meeting a friend for tea and crumpets. Surely he wasn’t involved in some sort of Death Eater retrospective, she thought. Hermione had seen the trials, and felt confident that whatever sort of deviant the man was, he would never go back to that.

After taking a deep breath, she whipped her wand from the folds of her cloak and inched toward the door. Just a quick peak, she thought. No harm, no foul. Harry, of course, would have an absolute fit if he knew she was loitering around here. But that was rather hypocritical, given his own misadventures of the same sort.

She whispered the same strange words that Draco Malfoy had before her, and when the door opened of its own accord, she slipped into the darkness. It was within the unlit passage beyond that she began to think about how very stupid her plan truly was. She had no inclination of what lay ahead or what was lurking in the darkness with her.

Hermione swallowed in horror. She wouldn’t dare cast a lumos spell for fear that she’d be spotted. With that borne in mind, she stretched her arms out and felt the crumbling brick work scrape against her fingertips. The passage was less than a metre in width. It led to a room not far beyond. She knew this because a narrow strand of light was afforded from beneath the door.

Well, she thought, she had come this far. It would hardly hurt to have a very quick glimpse at the sinister activities beyond. After that she would be able to summon the proper authorities. Her resolve firm, Hermione pushed her sleeves up and crept toward the light. She cast a rather nifty revealing charm on the heavy wooden door, so that it would show what lay beyond without giving away her location. One of the very many skills she had acquired after years of the aforementioned eavesdropping.

Her sharp eyes did a quick inventory of the room. It was fairly small, occupied primarily by a large round table at which were seated all manner of devious looking people. In fact, upon closer inspection, she was fairly certain a goblin and two hags were amongst the motley crew. Most peculiar, she thought. The table was stacked with bottles of Ogden’s finest, mounds of galleons and... cards. Self-shuffling playing cards, at that.

With a roar of triumph, a very drunk looking man of questionable hygiene reached into the middle of the table and scooped the golden coins toward him.

Illegal Wizarding poker, Hermione realised. She had read an article about underground tournaments in the Daily Prophet only a month prior. The activity, though harmless compared to her initial suspicions, was banned by the Ministry and punishable by exorbitant fines. Unless the person caught was someone with a criminal record, someone on extended parole. Someone like Draco Malfoy.

She cast her gaze around the room in search of his pale and obnoxious self. Hermione finally spotted him in the far corner of the room, partially obscured by a buxom looking woman who was moving sinuously about his lap. She yelped in shock. He was draped over the chair, being entertained, and barking out orders to the people at the table. It was bad enough when she thought he was participating in the underground activity, but that he was clearly the orchestrator meant he had a one way ticket to Azkaban.

As she watched, the girl with little clothing was thrust unceremoniously from his lap. His gaze was hard as it burnt into the door. Hermione had a suddenly very nasty feeling he’d heard her. Absurd thought, really, given quite how raucous his companions were.

Swallowing, she moved backwards with as much haste as possible. One hand slipped into her robes to extract a small vial, she always kept one to hand, and raised her wand to her temple. The fluid silver strand of memory barely had time to fall into the vial and be tucked away before the door was flung open.

She was tucked against the doorway to the entrance, not daring to open it because she felt quite certain she wouldn’t get out in time. He closed the opposing door quickly and they were once again draped in darkness.

“Who is there?” The tone was malicious. She licked her dry lips once more and gripped her wand more firmly. She was just about to make a very brave statement, or stupefy him, when she felt breath against her hair and a wand at her throat.

Her heart dropped.

“Granger... you weren’t spying again were you? I’d rather thought you Gryffindors had grown out of that nasty habit.” His breath rushed against her and she gasped in shock.

“How did you—” He interrupted her swiftly.

“Stealth was never a strong point of yours. That and the smell of self-righteousness currently lingering about. Gave you away completely.”

Prat, she thought.

“Well you looked suspicious... and I do work for the Ministry... I could hardly let you wander off.” Her tone was very authoritative, for which she was grateful. It was hard to be appropriately snooty when a wand was pressing against one’s pulse point.

He muttered something, and light burst from the tip of his wand, now held away from her. She was startled by the very immediate proximity of his face to hers.

“Helping the helpless, Granger... your ministerial job relates strictly to removing happy creatures from their homes. It does not extend to harassing civilians... but then that was always an extra service you provided, wasn’t it?”

He sneered and she glared.

She tilted her head as best she could in the confined space. “What you’re doing is illegal... I could have you reported, your freedom revoked. So really, I think—”

“Don’t you dare attempt to threaten me.” His gaze narrowed and the wand was back in the vicinity of her throat. “No one’s being hurt. You want me sent to Azkaban for that? Or is it because of some latent desire of yours to punish me for picking on you?”

“For goodness sake, Malfoy—”

“Grudges aren’t pretty, Granger.”

He pressed closer and her breath left her. His gaze, ashy and piercing, burnt across her retina. His nose brushed hers and his jaw clenched.

“I’m just doing my—”

“Job, right? Fine. What will it cost you?” She blinked then and he leaned back to survey her. She swallowed, and pulled in the air afforded by his no longer alarming proximity to her.

And then his words rang clear and Hermione spat in response. “I can’t be bought!”

“Everyone can be bought, Granger, when you dangle the right enticement. How’s your job going, by the way? Not much success from what I hear... not enough funding, perhaps?” He shrugged eloquently.

Her eyes glowed in anger at the audacity of him, at his sheer corruptness. She shoved him, at which he looked quite affronted, and then she raised her own wand.

“I don’t need your money, Malfoy. You’re despicable...”

“Indeed.” He tapped a pale finger to his chin. “Pity, though, about those poor defenceless house-elves. Terrible shame you can’t get the support you need to help them... are too proud to put them ahead of your all pervasive sense of self-righteousness.”

She hated him, truly she did. She hated the way he manipulated people, the way he was trying to manipulate her. Mostly she hated the fact that he phrased it quite like that, as though it was her fault that her ventures were thus far unsuccessful. And she really hated that she was even considering what he was saying.

“I need to think,” she said. And she did, because she was sure that with some clarity she would come to the right conclusion. Hermione needed to assess a situation, wasn’t one who came to swift and uninformed decisions under duress. This, most assuredly, counted as duress.

“Excellent idea. You can ponder this whole saga in all its glory at the Manor.”

She spluttered. “Er, what? No!” She coughed again. “I meant that I need to go home... alone... to think.”

He laughed. It was a low and deep sound which did strange things to her stomach. Repulsion, she’d later call it.

“Granger, you don’t actually think I’m letting you out of my sight, do you? Not so clever, perhaps.”

She was just about to pelt a suitably scathing response to that when she felt his firm grip on her wrist and the sudden pull behind her navel.

*

She landed in a heap of graceless limbs upon the white pebbled path before a vast black gate of elegantly intertwined wrought iron. Malfoy was standing, frustratingly un-dishevelled, only a foot away. A look of irritation and amusement, at her expense, lingered across his features as he surveyed her.

“I can see your knickers from this angle, Granger... do please adjust your robes.” Red heat flamed her cheeks as she made to cover every exposed inch of flesh and scrambled to her feet.

“You could not!” She huffed, and glanced about. The denseness of black sky was littered with small pearls of starlight. They revealed the exceptionally large house atop the hill, barely to be seen over the intimidating gated entrance. “Your house, I presume? How dare you drag me here against my will?”

“Never trust someone who wears red with the frequency that you do. It’s a solid piece of advice I’ve not forgotten. And in any case, we’re here to wait, remember?”

She huffed and, as covertly as possible, tried to brush errant lint from her robes. “These gates suggest you’re trying to compensate for something.” He turned to cast a disparaging look at her.

“Malfoys compensate for nothing. Think on that a while, Granger.” He swiftly grabbed her wrist, to which she let out a yelp, and yanked her toward the gate. “You won’t get through otherwise, and I’m not leaving you alone.”

He walked directly through the black gates, which dissolved like smoke to swirl around their bodies as they entered. Hermione was loath to admit it, but she found that particular brand of magic rather fascinating.

“Stop looking at my gate, Granger. In fact, try to avoid looking at, or touching, anything.”

She yanked her hand away from him and rubbed the tender skin of her wrist. Although she held no fear of particular harm from him, she wanted nothing more than to escape the sinister sumptuousness of the Manor grounds. In fact, she wanted to escape Wiltshire and everything Malfoy related altogether. She harboured very bad memories about this place.

He cast her a side-long look which seemed to suggest he hadn’t forgotten either.

“I’d have thought there’d be a thestral-drawn carriage to bring you the hundred metres to your door. Heaven forbid the Malfoy heir dirty the sole of his shoes by actually walking.” She pressed her lips together to keep from grinning at the mutinous look on his face, and the thrill at getting a shot in at him. She was clearly coming back to herself.

“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to feed you to the peacocks.” His tone was sinister but she burst out laughing nonetheless. When she cast her gaze around she saw them, blindingly white and prancing across the lawn. A very Malfoy-like prance at that. Well-trained, she thought.

“You have peacocks!” She laughed again. It was a serious predicament she was in, but only the most severe sort of person could not find amusement in the sight of them.

“Yes,” he said, his tone dry. “And they, like all Malfoy residents, eat Muggleborns for breakfast. So if you please...”

She was quite puffed out by the time they reached the grand building. The walk was steep and she had slipped on the smooth white stones that paved the way on more than one occasion.

The door, like everything else about the house, was vast and grand. It seemed completely absurd to her that a household of three people would require quite so much living space. Malfoy stood still as the door slid open to reveal a small house-elf that she later found out was called Mufty. The little creature greeted Malfoy with the kind of quivering reverence that Hermione immediately narrowed her eyes at.

“Careful now, Mufty.” His voice was stern and the small creature watched, riveted. “Miss Granger is liable to knit you a hat at any moment. If she does, you know what to do.”

Mufty, eyes now wide with horror, nodded her head most gravely. Hermione ignored this and smiled kindly at the house-elf. She received a very alarmed look in response.

“This way, Granger. Do try not to indulge your rampant curiosities while you’re here. I want this matter settled satisfactorily, and you gone, as soon as possible.”

“I wouldn’t be here now, if you hadn’t manhandled me like a cave man.” The look he shot her seemed amused, but he was absurdly difficult to read.

“Good grief… what the devil is a caveman?” He shuddered visibly, and she took in the vision of his horror with great delight.

She followed him across the highly polished mahogany boards, eyeing the lush draperies and gilt-framed paintings as they passed through various corridors. Finally he opened a door, revealing a small—relative, based on the size of everything else—sitting room. It was ablaze with the glow of flames from the hearth which immediately thawed her chilled skin.

“Sit,” he told her promptly, before he moved to the corner to issue two fingers of amber liquid from a decanter into a crystal glass. He offered her one, which she vehemently declined.

The whole thing was almost civilised.

He sat then, the glass held by the tips of his fingers, and he gazed at her. The warm glow of the fire suffused his cheeks, dancing across his pale skin. She licked her lips and fidgeted in her seat. The silence grew thick until he finally spoke.

“Well?”

She furrowed her brow. “Well, what?”

“Have you decided to take up my generous offer of assistance?”

Oh, she thought. This was the time to say no, and storm out of the house with gusto. Except that she kept thinking about the crystal glasses, ermine pillow dusters and the peacocks. In a very twisted sort of a way, it seemed appropriate that some of this wealth should go toward helping others. That it should be Malfoy money going towards house-elves in particular really tickled her fancy.

She was going to say no, had every intention. But she had one quick question.

“How, er—how generous... exactly?” The grin that unfurled across his features was positively indecent.

“Obscenely so.” He poured another helping, celebratory this time, she supposed.

They hashed it out then, the finer points. It rather felt like doing a deal with the devil, and when he said he had to have complete assurance she’d never breathe a word, she laughed. Didn’t he know she would never let it get out that she’d gone in cahoots with him? Her intentions may be good, but she knew it was off the beaten track, especially for someone of her perceived moral standing.

Yet another personal sacrifice for the betterment of others.

“Just one final wrinkle to smooth out, then.” He clicked his fingers, which incensed her beyond belief, and Mufty appeared before him. The little creature cast a weary glance her way.

“Master?” she squeaked.

“Fetch my mother.” Without haste, Mufty disappeared with a crack in order to do her master’s bidding.

“What on earth?” she asked, jumping to her feet. The last thing she wanted was anyone else involved in this tawdry affair.

“You don’t really think I’ll just trust your word, do you?” He got up gracefully and wandered over to her. “I need some insurance.”

He was standing very close to her, enough to make her eye him wearily. This turned out to be completely justified, when he gripped both sides of her robe and tugged her toward the solid heat of him. Her nostrils flared at the scent of his skin, and his very unwanted nearness. One hand gripped her waist and the other slipped beneath the fabric concealing her clothes underneath.

She gasped and tried to push him away, to no effect. She gasped again when an errant finger brushed the underside of her breast through the fabric of her jumper. He raised a brow at that, his mouth quirking in amusement. He stepped back then, removing his hands from her body, and she noticed immediately that one held the small vial of silvery liquid.

He grinned, clearly impressed with himself, and twirled the vial with his elegant fingers. “You won’t be needing this,” he said and he threw it into the hearth without a second thought.

She swallowed, a little uncomfortable in her skin, the strange touch of his fingers like a brand on her. It disconcerted her to know quite how good he was at all of this underhand business, and how well he’d read her.

“Don’t touch me,” she muttered. He seemed about to make some insulting remark before a noise behind them caught his attention.

“Draco,” the word was uttered in a soft and relatively high voice, ringing clear with aristocratic self importance. Hermione turned to glimpse Narcissa Malfoy, who entered the room with the slightest of sounds.

She seemed to glide, like liquid rushing along the floor. Hermione noticed that the other woman didn’t even spare her the briefest of glances, as though she was nothing but a speck of unseen dust on the floor.

Draco pressed a smooth kiss to the white skin of his mother’s cheek and turned to Hermione. “Mother. We have a situation.”

Narcissa Malfoy’s arctic gaze, so very like her son’s, rested upon Hermione with a look of such disdain that made the latter feel rather like a lump of wood, which was probably in line with the older woman’s estimation of her.

Malfoy told his mother, quite succinctly, and without any remorse, of what had happened and their newly devised arrangement. Whatever her thoughts on the matter were, she didn’t let on at all.

“I see,” she said instead. Hermione couldn’t really establish what it was she saw at all.

She reached into the swath of elegant fabric to extract her wand, and gestured to her son. He moved forward, before Hermione could object, and clasped her wrist, using his other hand to shape hers so that her fingers were wrapped around his own.

Her eyes widened as Narcissa Malfoy whispered cool words, and the chilled feeling of intangible cords began to creep around their joined wrists. She had never agreed to the Unbreakable Vow. Malfoy’s stare was daring as it bored into her own wide gaze.

This, she supposed, was his insurance. The benefit for her, of course, was that it would guarantee no one else uncovered her part in the whole sordid affair. Although she was increasingly beginning to wish she had stayed away from Knockturn Alley to begin with.

“Do you swear to hold true to the bargain struck tonight?”

“I will,” were the words that fell from her lips and his.

“Do you swear to keep every aspect of this arrangement a secret?”

“I will.”

“Do you swear to take every measure possible to prevent the truth from being uncovered?”

“I will.”

The tongues of magic wrapped more firmly around their hands, binding the oath to their very souls. It was a magic that scared her because of its finality. She could scarcely believe she had performed it with him of all people.

Narcissa pocketed her wand and turned to look at Hermione. “You have what you want now, I suggest you leave.”

Her eyes flew wide at the insinuation behind the words, and she was about to retort when Malfoy gripped her upper arm and dragged her away. She cast her gaze over her shoulder and noticed his mother sweeping from the room.

“How dare she say—”

“Don’t be rude to my mother, Granger.” He glared at her and thrust her from his grip toward the fireplace.

She didn’t need to be told twice. Hermione had never been more eager to leave a place or person in all her life. Her fingers gathered a scoopful of the magical dust and threw it into the fireplace, and in a burst of green flame she was gone.


	3. The Expose

... 5 months to D-Day...

Somehow she had always known, during the four months that passed, in a swirl of colour and activity, since that fateful night at Malfoy Manor, that it would come back to bite her in the backside. And yet there were many moments—when she soared with the success of her ventures—in which she thought perhaps they would get away with it.

And, frankly, she deserved it. And if she didn’t, then the elves certainly did. She had dedicated years in general to increasing awareness of the mistreatment of creatures considered to be of lesser worth than wizards. She had dedicated over nine months in particular to her job within the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures department of the Ministry, and during that time she had positively slaved for little result. The problem, she knew, was that people didn’t much care for fixing the problem; it caused too many issues they said. Of course, no one wanted to come right out and say they supported old wizarding families abusing their house-elves... but when it came right down to it they didn’t want to do anything to resolve the problem either.

It had felt just like fourth year all over again, when Ron had mocked her for knitting hats and making badges. She was an idealist, that was true, but she rather thought it was better than being ignorant.

Hermione had done everything in those first nine months to arrange further funding for the department. She had personally written to all sorts of sympathetic parties in the hopes of some support. As it turned out, sympathy was actually just pity in disguise, and did not reflect a keenness to do anything helpful. As vexing as Malfoy’s disparaging comments about her job had been, there had been a painful grain of truth to the words.

She supposed that was probably what had led her to accept the ludicrous offer. Actually it wasn’t so much of an offer, given that he’d dragged her to his proverbial palace and refused to let her leave until she’d said yes anyway. That there had been a benefit in the whole arrangement for her was just incidental. But as much as she felt rather guilty about concealing the truth, the fact was that she was doing it for the better good.

Her friends had never taken an interest in her pursuits like that before, so really she had no need to tell them. Even if she weren’t bound to silence from the vow that she had, in a moment of weakness, consented to, she wouldn’t have told them anyway. She also had to remind herself that, though it was a fact she very much resented, this was the way of things. All around her people made underhand deals in the boys club that was the Ministry. That was how it had always been, and if she was going to make the necessary changes, she would have to participate in some of the more unsavoury aspects of parliament. She just had the benefit of knowing that Malfoy, reprobate and utterly untrustworthy individual that he was, could not use it against her publicly.

It had been so easy. That was the thing that struck Hermione most in the months that followed the tawdry agreement. She had announced to her department head that she had found a very generous philanthropist, a highly eccentric individual who was therefore determined to maintain secrecy. Of course, the Ministry weren’t too fussed about that, as long as the money was coming in. It meant that they could allocate the meagre resources provided to her in another—and deemed by them to be more relevant—direction. They only tended to look into those kinds of dealings if it was likely to cause any additional trouble for them.

She rather thought she had learnt a lot about politics in that time. And despite how much it annoyed her to know that she had changed things for the better off the back of assistance from Malfoy, at least it was happening. For the elves, she thought.

Hermione worked herself hard for weeks, but with the success of her proposals, and the proof in the pudding so to speak, she had made a lot of headway. Her department had managed to rescue numerous unhappy elves and set up housing and welfare for them. She even had an assistant now. Not that the girl was very good at her job, rather useless actually, because Hermione constantly had to go over all of her work and redo it. Who would have thought employing people would be so difficult?

Even her social life had begun to improve. She’d had dinner with Anthony Goldstein of the International Magical Co-operation department on a couple of occasions, and to great success she thought. He had been a Ravenclaw in the same year as her at Hogwarts, but they never really had much interaction back then. She had worked fairly closely with him on establishing tentative bilateral agreements with foreign ministries.

He was quite good looking and a wonderful conversationalist. Although she didn’t really want to put too much stock on the success of their dates, she rather hoped there was some potential there. After all, her dating repertoire since the fizzling of her romance with Ron after graduation had been a bit threadbare. It was one of the unfortunate repercussions of having a very heavy schedule and not a lot of room for new people, once one considered her extended family and the time they took up.

Whilst she tried to ignore the root cause of all the success her department was currently experiencing, she couldn’t deny that the support of Malfoy’s financing had really enabled her to push her agenda in the Ministry. It was an extremely exciting time for Hermione. So, given the cruelty of fate, it was only appropriate at this stage, when things were going so well, that the balloon would burst.

It happened, much to her horror, over breakfast and a cup of piping hot tea. Splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet was a very large and suspect looking photograph of her and Draco Malfoy talking in private. They were huddled in a dark corner, at night, and his head was lowered toward her. The fact that they both kept looking around rather shiftily only made it look more suspicious.

Hermione knew exactly when it had been taken. They had met only twice since that night to discuss necessary financing. She had been so certain that no one had seen them.

In any case, whatever she thought of the photograph, it could be explained away. It was the headline and the accompanying story which had her spraying Ceylon all over the countertop.

Potter’s Ally and Former Death Eater in Money Laundering Plot!

Her heart spluttered and then stopped as her voracious gaze pored over the contents of the article. It was so painfully incorrect in its facts that it made her want to stalk into the paper’s offices and wring the neck of its writer. That there was little substance to the allegations was really a moot point in Hermione’s opinion, because somehow a small portion of the truth had been uncovered. Or at the very least had the potential to be uncovered, which given her vow, was rather the same thing. The article, a Rita Skeeter special, outlined a sordid tale of Hermione and Malfoy’s collaboration to use the S.P.E.W. project as a way to launder money under the nose of the Ministry.

It seemed utterly absurd to her that the woman still harboured such resentful feelings toward her after all these years. It was very likely that she had started tailing Hermione the minute word of her successful ventures had started to spread. That the woman and her photographer had stumbled across a covert meeting between Hermione and Malfoy was very unfortunate indeed.

The crux of the issue now, Hermione knew, was that she had no real way of defending the claim. After all, she had sworn under the Unbreakable Vow that she would not tell the truth of their transactions, and that she would do whatever in her power to conceal it. No good would come from hoping it would all die down either. Such a vocal accusation against a well-respected war hero and a Ministry employee had the potential to warrant a fairly unsavoury investigation.

There seemed to her to be a bitter sort of irony in the fact that thanks to these claims Malfoy could end up in jail on an even worse charge than orchestrating an illegal poker tournament, and that she could potentially lose her job. This was precisely why people shouldn’t agree to such arrangements, because there was always a backlash. Now why had she forgotten such a salient point?

As she sat there at her small kitchen counter, still staring at the ink smudged pages of her newspaper, she tried to get a handle on the situation. Despite Skeeter’s notoriety for writing trashy articles with no substance, and the fact that her hatred of Hermione was well documented, she would still have to appease everyone, convince them of the falseness of the accusations.

Harry and Ron, all of her friends really, would have no trouble believing her to be innocent. They would, however, be very curious to know the contents of her meeting with Malfoy. She hadn’t the slightest inclination of what she would tell them on that score.

That was the least of her worries though. Her major priority was to ensure that the Ministry felt no need to look too closely into the allegations. There would be a meeting of course; they couldn’t be seen to completely ignore the whole thing, but she just had to convince them enough to guarantee there would be no inquiry. After all, she couldn’t very well swear to tell the truth in a court room and uphold the constraints of the vow.

She thought of Malfoy and wondered just what was going through his mind at that very moment. An extensive string of colourful obscenities, no doubt.

After all, they were, to use one of Ron’s most favoured sayings, completely screwed.

Now, before she could consider speaking to anyone, she was going to have to sit down with the person who had caused her life such upheaval, so that they could get their story straight. He, overindulged social-climber that he was, had no real job and therefore might be able to afford the stint in Azkaban that potentially lay ahead. She, on the other hand, had very important matters to see to.

*

It had been precisely seven hours and nine minutes since she had sent an owl to the Malfoy Manor. And she was still awaiting his arrival. This basically meant that she had been kept waiting seven hours and seven minutes longer than she would have thought the situation warranted.

Given his extremely delayed response to her missive, she had been cooped up in the house avoiding all possible contact with the outside world. Whilst it was a Saturday, and hence she had no need to venture into work, she knew for a fact that her friends were eager to hear from her. And frankly it looked suspicious for her to be in hibernation like this. Furthermore, she was innocent, of that particular crime in any case.

She had begun her day with some very deep breathing, extensive—albeit one-sided—conversations with Crookshanks about how best to handle the situation, and had followed all this up by taking copious notes. She now had 11 inches of parchment enumerating her thoughts on the matter, and how she perceived their chances were of the whole thing blowing over.

Lamentably, they weren’t all that optimistic. After all, if she had learnt something about the wizarding community in her time, it was that when it came to a scandal, its members were like vultures picking at the carcass of a story until there was nothing left.

Oh, how she dreaded the thought of being that carcass.

Hermione paused in her pacing of the small living room in her flat. There wasn’t a whole lot of space for walking, but she found that doing loops around the coffee table at the very least gave her some way to pass the time.

This accounted for her physical need to occupy herself. Mentally, she was just as busy. Her thoughts flew in a colourful sequence of visions, all of which involved the infliction of pain upon a person with an unnaturally shiny head. She had just reached a particularly satisfying mental image when she heard the distinctive sound of a pop outside her front door. Hermione raced to the small peep hole to ensure that it was actually him this time. She’d seen more than one reporter trying to gain entry to her building today.

She needn’t have worried; the reflection of his face was blinding enough to convince her that Draco Malfoy had, finally, deigned to acknowledge her summons.

Quickly unbolting the door, she threw it open, feeling an electric current of rage skirting through her body directed purely at him. Her eyes were narrowed and he looked quite alarmed.

“Good grief… you look frightening. I do hope no children live in this building… I’ve heard about the latent effect traumatic experiences can have on them when they grow up.”

“Are you quite finished?” She was in absolutely no mood to deal with his sparring. Although the sting from his childhood hatred of her and her kind had well and truly died, his continued need to bait her had not.

“Merlin, no. On this topic, I can assure you, I could go on for hours.”

He shoved past her and she dead bolted the door, much to his bemusement. Wizards didn’t use Muggle locks, which she supposed made sense given how entirely susceptible they were to magical manipulation. She used wards too of course, but she found the act of locking the door manually gave her a sense of security she couldn’t deny.

It was very strange, she realised as she watched him, to see Draco Malfoy standing in her home. It felt entirely violated, especially given the way he was surveying the area.

“Granger… why do you have sofas in your entry hall?” He looked highly perturbed.

“It’s my living room.” She pointed to one of the aforementioned sofas so that he might get the hint and sit down. “Anyway you’re not here to discuss my furniture arrangement.”

“Living room?” He wandered out of the main room and down the narrow hall, prowling in a very unwelcome fashion. His voice called out from the vicinity of her bedroom. “You call this a house? I’ve seen broom closets bigger than this space and… fuck me! What is that?!”

The sound of hissing told her that what had caused his extreme alarm was in fact her cat, Crookshanks, who clearly didn’t like his humble abode being insulted in quite that fashion.

She walked past him, he had backed himself in a corner with his wand held aloft, and reached out to scratch the feline’s ears.

“Clever, Crookshanks.” He purred contentedly, with one eye still open and fixed on Malfoy.

“You keep that thing as a pet?” He eyed the two of them before continuing, “I suppose there are some similarities… what with the abundance of—”

“Don’t even say it, Malfoy. Or I’ll hex off all your extremities!” She narrowed her eyes at him before stalking back into the living room, grateful that he actually followed.

“I’m beginning to sense a preoccupation of yours with my… extremities, to use your own description.” He arched a brow and sat down on her squishy armchair.

“Shut up, Malfoy. You insulted my house, my cat and my appearance in one fell swoop. You deserve whatever is coming to you. And stop prodding my sofa, it’s perfectly comfortable.”

He muttered something, which she elected to ignore, for the sake of getting the conversation over with, and reached for her notes.

“You didn’t really make discussion points, did you?”

She huffed, and shuffled them in order. She’d actually rewritten them twice, but she wouldn’t tell him that. “If you hadn’t kept me waiting, I wouldn’t have needed to.”

“I was… detained.” The slightly lecherous quality of his expression, as he seemed to revel in the memory, told her just how he’d been detained. It was something she truly did not want to know. And, in fact, she harboured a deep suspicion that the reason for his delay was nothing of that sort. He was clearly trying to bait her again.

“Yes, well… you’ll be detained in a whole other manner if we don’t sort this out.” Her tone was serious and, she noted, finally his expression seemed to match the situation.

Weariness descended over his brow as he surveyed the article spread before them. “On this point, I quite agree.” He paused and said quite archly, “Though it is really your fault that Skeeter’s gone to such lengths. Truly hates you, she does.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If I recall, it was you who started her on the whole campaign in fourth year in the first place!”

He paused, and a fond sort of expression lit his features. “Quite true.”

“You don’t suppose she’ll just… drop it, do you?” Her tone was hopeful, though she knew it was without cause.

“It depends on what she’s got… If she thinks there’s really a story then it could stretch out. We’re fucked if there’s any sort of inquiry about it. And given my history with the Ministry… that’s a distinct possibility.”

That was very true, indeed.

“Well given your insistence on using the Vow, we really have got our hands tied. You know, you could have just trusted me on this and we’d have got out of it okay.”

He rolled his eyes at her tone of voice. “Why on earth would I trust the very person whose intention it was to put me in prison in the first place?”

She was loath to admit it, but that had been the reason she followed him that night. “Not the point! We’d made an agreement, and I’m infinitely more trustworthy than you.”

“You’re trustworthy to those who agree with you, not those you oppose. There’s a difference, Granger. Contrary to what you clearly believe, you do not have everyone’s best interests at heart.”

“I’ll have you know—”

“Look, my family has a history of funding Ministry projects. It goes back generations… so why should it be so hard to believe I’m doing the same?”

She paused. “Because it’s me. Who will believe you want to help me achieve anything?”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “That’s true… never could stand over-achievers.”

She glared at him, because frankly such contributions were hardly helpful.

“Okay,” she sighed. “We have no choice but to go with that line of argument anyway. Anything more detailed will only look like a cover up. We just say you’re doing it to improve your standing after the war… which, by rights, you should be doing.”

“In your eyes, Granger. The eyes of the Ministry. That doesn’t count for everything in my world.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but really didn’t know what to say, and so left it.

“I’m going to talk to Harry tonight, and then I’ll go into the Ministry tomorrow and try and sort this out. In the meantime, if you see reporters just go with that story.”

“Do you always use that tone with your friends? I, unlike Weasley, am not an errant mule to be ordered around.” He sneered at her and then left without another word.

She could only hope that their feeble story would be enough to save both their hides. She wasn’t hopeful though, because anyone who knew their history would highly doubt he’d ever think to help her succeed in anything. And certainly nothing to do with house-elves.


	4. The Betrothal

... Four months to D-Day...

The previous month had been absolutely hellish. Hermione had known that, as sure as she knew the nose on her face, things would only go from bad to worse. They had. As she had told Malfoy that evening, she’d gone straight to Harry and Ginny’s to hash out—to the best of her ability—what had really happened. Both had been extremely sceptical about Malfoy’s intentions behind giving her the money.

Neither suspected any foul play on her behalf of course. But they did believe it was possible that the heir to the Malfoy fortune was up to something shifty and using their trustworthy friend as a cover. Harry argued that her fervent wish for help on the S.P.E.W. project could lead her to trust anyone. She’d been rather peeved at that.

It wasn’t just her friends who found the whole tale rather sketchy. As she had guessed, the story had been bandied about in the news for weeks, no matter how many statements she or Malfoy made.

Sadly no one took the bait. All manner of conspiracy theories danced on the tongues of gossipers around England. She had even had a particularly uncomfortable meeting with the head of her department and the Minister for Magic.

It was a tricky situation, they said. Whilst they appreciated all the work she had done for them, the public wanted blood and answers; they wouldn’t rest until they had them. It was positively scandalous to think she had aligned herself with a Malfoy!

There would have to be a trial, they said, before the full Wizengamot court at which point all evidence would be heard. They told her not to worry, they’d get it all cleaned up without too much bother.

Her heart had sunk at each uttered word.

That particular conversation had occurred only a few days ago, when the Ministry had suggested that she take a few days off because of the strain of it all. She’d scoffed at that. Strain for them, not her. After all she had done for the Ministry, fighting at Harry’s side and helping save all of them, this was the repayment she got.

That was the main reason she was sitting in the Weasley kitchen, drinking tea and eating biscuits whilst discussing her dwindling future with Arthur, Harry and Ron. Molly Weasley could be heard bustling about in the kitchen and interjecting every few minutes with scolding remarks directed at that deviant Malfoy boy. Hermione thought it improper to remind her that he wasn’t exactly a boy any longer.

They had been hunched over the table discussing and rehashing everything, and it was starting to make her head throb. Arthur Weasley, bless his soul, had her best interests at heart, but she knew his help would be of no good because she simply couldn’t give him the information needed to resolve her problem.

“They can’t just fire you, Hermione, when you did nothing wrong.” This was Harry, lovely, righteous Harry, who believed in the eternal purity of her intentions.

“I know… but it just seems like after all the media circus Rita Skeeter has created, they’re trying to find a scapegoat.”

Arthur concurred. So did Harry, with reluctance. He knew that routine rather well, having experienced it himself.

“It’s all bloody Malfoy’s fault,” Ron muttered. If he only knew, she thought.

Actually if he and Harry knew that she’d been shanghaied into an Unbreakable Vow with Draco Malfoy, they’d probably have killed him anyway. Or set Ginny Weasley and her alarmingly potent Bat Bogey Hexes on him at the very least.

Tempting thought, she mused.

It was from this frame of thought that she was interrupted by the tapping of a neatly-trimmed owl talon on the window. All faces turned toward the direction of the noise to see an absurdly extravagant looking eagle owl gazing haughtily in at them. Its sleek feathers were so perfectly in place, in spite of the howling winds outside, that she knew it could belong to no other than a Malfoy.

Hermione was getting quite good at reading the signs. If, according to Malfoy, she reeked of self-righteousness, then the pretentious air of superiority around everything Malfoy was even more potent.

“That’s Malfoy’s owl—I recognise it!” Ron and Harry both jumped to let the bird in, and she scrambled to get there ahead of them. Fortunately, like all other creatures owned by that family, this one was extremely well trained and quite malicious. The glare it shot both of her friends, and the way its beak snapped in their direction was sufficient to ward them off.

Once she released the letter from the holder around his claw, the bird flew off again. She broke the blackened wax seal and read its contents.

Granger,

9 o’clock or I’ll feed the peacocks.

Malfoy

At least she assumed the sign off was from him. It consisted of such convoluted calligraphic strokes that one could never tell. She tried not to laugh at the reference to peacocks. She was fairly certain he was joking, in his very not funny, but rather obscure way.

“Peacocks?” Ron’s voice came from behind her. She really hated when he exploited their height differences and read over her shoulder. “He’s going to feed you to peacocks! What the—”

“Oh, Ron! Don’t be silly.” She tucked the missive in her pocket and rolled her eyes at him. “He has no social skills… You know that. Anyway, I have to go… We need to sort this out.”

“Hermione… you’re not going to Wiltshire on your own.” She swivelled to look at Harry, who had a rather determined expression on his face.

“Actually I am… You won’t even get through their wards. Invitation only, I suspect.” She waved the letter to illustrate her point.

And anyway, it wasn’t as if she wanted to be there. But this was a situation that couldn’t be ignored. If she was correct, then it was likely Malfoy had been contacted regarding the Wizengamot hearing, and was just as eager to find a solution as her.

There was absolutely no conceivable way that either of her friends, despite how good their intentions were, would be coming.

*

He was standing directly before her when she vacated the green blaze of the fire place, trying to covertly shake any excess soot from her clothing.

“You’re walking ash all over a three hundred year-old rug.”

She sighed, beyond the point of aggravation. “I don’t care about your fancy rug! My career could be over after this, don’t you realise?”

“Well, now,” he said, staring at her appraisingly. “That’s optimistic thinking. Here I thought your primary concern would be the permanent vacation to Azkaban that we’re both looking at if this isn’t fixed.”

She stared at him, eyes wide with dismay. It was true. She hadn’t even considered that possibility. She wasn’t guilty, so naturally it had never occurred to her that they would find her as such, but without any defence it was highly possible.

Hermione sank into one of the exquisite armchairs, ignoring the cringe on his face at the prospect of ash on the furniture too. She hated the thought of him bearing witness to a moment of weakness, but she succumbed to the urge to let her head fall into her hands.

Everything had spun absurdly beyond their control.

“Look, Granger, be under no illusions... I like this no more than you. In fact I’m at greater risk than you! Just for goodness sake… don’t cry or anything.”

She lifted her head to glare at him. Sensitive, he most certainly was not. “Okay... we need to come to some sort of resolution. Do you have any bright ideas because—”

He sat across from her, staring unblinkingly into the fire. “We’re waiting for my mother. She’s been to the family... solicitor. Trying to find out what our options are. You know, loopholes, that kind of thing.”

Shockingly, she drew little comfort in this. She did question him about Narcissa Malfoy’s constant involvement in everything. He told her simply that his mother solved problems in their family. Whatever that meant.

They waited in heavy silence for a further ten minutes or so before the matriarch and a rather weedy-looking man joined them. The man was introduced as Alphonias Astrophy. Hermione took it to understand that he too was integral in the solving of family problems. The Malfoys, with their strange ways, were so unlike any other group of people she had ever known.

“I have spoken with your father and Mr Astrophy extensively, Draco.” She paused to cast a glance at her companion before continuing. “There is only one solution. You won’t like it; indeed it hardly bears thinking about. But I won’t have you going to that dreadful place...”

Hermione’s heart quickened as she watched the thin veil of composure slip from the graceful woman’s features. One tended to forget that the woman had any real feelings beneath her icy façade, but she was a mother, and that she would do anything for her son was patently obvious. Hermione spared a glance at Malfoy and could see the clenching of his jaw in reaction.

“Tell me,” he said. This he directed at the other man.

“Mr Malfoy, there is a small aspect of the law, particularly in relation to Wizengamot court hearings, which we can... uh.... bend to our will.” He coughed delicately before continuing. “Actually it would bear on this situation in two ways. You see spousal—”

Hermione jumped, both at the dreaded word uttered, its implication, and the smashing of the glass which slipped from Malfoy’s grip. Narcissa cast them both a stern glare and they listened, the words dizzying in their effect.

“As I was saying, spousal immunity will prevent either of you from having to testify against each other, thus protecting you both under the constraints of the Unbreakable Vow. It will also have bearing insofar as the argument of Mr Malfoy’s intentions of giving Miss Granger money. An acknowledged relationship between you both would seem justification enough for the generosity. Given the falsity of the allegations, there’ll be no actual evidence to support them… and without testimony there is no case.”

“It’s not a perfect solution… There are no guarantees the Ministry won’t pursue the inquiry anyway,” Narcissa interrupted. “But it’s very likely they will leap at the chance to drop the whole case, what with Miss Granger’s history and connections.” She uttered the last word with clear distaste. “The important point is that this will protect you from breaking the Vow… which is the greatest concern.”

“No.” Malfoy said the word, but it was the same one that was echoing in her mind. She concurred vehemently. “No fucking way.” He shook his head to punctuate the point.

“I agree,” she said quickly. “Though not quite so crudely. I refuse to marry him... there has to be some other way.”

Narcissa Malfoy was now looking at her like she was an unknown specimen of flobberworm, no doubt for having snubbed her beloved son. “Miss Granger, with all due respect, if you are forced to testify in court, you will breach the agreement of the Vow. Surely you are aware of the consequences of that? Be under no illusions… if there was a way to prevent this outcome, we would not be having this discussion.”

Hermione felt dizzy from the knowledge of this very true and very awful statement. She noticed that Malfoy was massaging fingers to his temple. All she wanted was to leave, to go back in time and to have ignored her urge to find out what he was up to. If she had done that then she wouldn’t be in this mess.

She was also feeling extremely resentful toward the Malfoys for this predicament. If they had trusted her to hold to her word, they could have avoided the Vow and this explosion of implications. The truth of what had happened was so much easier to admit, regardless of how it would have tarnished their reputations, than what now had to happen.

Well, she thought, perhaps not for Malfoy. He’d still have been looking at a prison sentence, but she would have been fine.

“I wasn’t aware that spousal immunity even existed in Wizarding Law. And in any case, we’re not currently married, so how would it even apply?” Hermione, being Hermione, tried not to think about the context of the question and focused instead on the root problem.

It was Mr Astrophy who responded, speaking with some difficulty over the inane mutterings of Malfoy. “There were several attempts to eradicate the clause after the first war, yes, but no motions were passed. As for your second point… betrothals are—”

“—taken very seriously, Miss Granger. You will find that as a betrothed couple, you would be afforded the same privileges.”

She could see quite how horrible the words tasted on Narcissa’s patrician tongue. This made perfect sense to Hermione, as she herself found the whole thing to be equally distasteful and archaic. It also aggravated her to know that she had looked quite so uninformed just now.

Malfoy, having apparently regained control of all his faculties, stood up and seemed to take in an inordinately large amount of air before he exhaled. “Fine.”

Fine. That was all he had to say? It was not fine.

“How long would we have to stay married for?” she asked. Malfoy laughed at her and Narcissa turned and elegantly raised a brow in her direction.

“Till death, Miss Granger. Whatever else were you expecting?” Hermione swallowed, slightly alarmed at the expression on the other woman’s face. She was almost certain that there wasn’t a veiled threat in there, or that it was a joke. Narcissa Malfoy, however, didn’t seem all that in touch with her funny bone, though. Something of which to keep note.

“Miss Granger,” said Mr Astrophy. “The marital contract would be binding… There can be no risk of shame brought on the family by something as unsavoury as…”

“Divorce? This is absurd! I can’t be expected to give up my own hopes for marriage, and settle for this... all because of some stupid decision.”

The very concept of divorce was intrinsically Muggle, so it was only natural that the Malfoys wouldn’t believe in it. The problem, Hermione knew, with wizarding marital custom, was that a contract was issued and it was, for the most part, binding. She had never read much in the way of the marital laws before, but she knew that development of a process for divorce of wizarding marriages was very much in the early stages. It wasn’t impossible though, whatever Narcissa thought.

“And who, exactly, were you planning to marry?” Malfoy’s lip curled as he stared her down. “Deal with it... I’m not going to drop dead on the floor all because it’s inconvenient for you to marry me.” He sneered at her then. “I on the other hand was intending to marry.”

Her mouth, in preparation for another argument with his hateful self, popped open. She hadn’t even been aware he was dating someone. It was probably some arranged marriage planned from birth, since she couldn’t imagine anyone actually choosing to tie herself to him forever.

“You know nothing about my life or my family, so enough with the assumptions.”

She narrowed her eyes in response. “Oh, I’m sorry. Perhaps the half-naked girl writhing around on your lap threw me off! Or was she your intended?” She smiled sweetly, noting the way his mother turned swiftly to stare at him before muttering something under her breath.

He stepped forward, completely ignoring the other people in the room. “Paying that much attention were you? I bet it made your prudish self blush all over... the thought of someone having fun,” he paused and stood closer, barely whispering, “the thought of sex.” His expression was relentless and she wanted nothing more than to claw out his eyes.

She’d better not though, or else she suspected Narcissa Malfoy would try and feed her to those ridiculous white peacocks.

“For Merlin’s sake, both of you stop it. We have a lot of work to do... damage control. I will arrange the wedding announcement, but in the meantime we have to notify the Ministry and somehow make this whole thing believable.” She paused to scan the tension between the two of them. “An impossible task.”

She swept out of the room with an abundance of hauteur and disdain. Mr Astrophy followed meekly in her wake.

“Fuck me,” Malfoy said once they were alone, apparently dispensing with the venom. “We’re both going to hell.”

She sat down too and they both stared at the fire, lost in thought. “I can’t marry you... not if it’s a life sentence,” she whispered finally.

“Look, annoying though you undoubtedly are, you’re also exceptionally relentless. Not unlike a bout of spattergroit.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I figure there must be some way to break the marital contract; there have been occasions in history when it’s happened. So find a way and after an appropriate amount of time we can go our separate ways.”

She stared at him, considering his words and was almost sidetracked by the slight hint of a compliment in his speech. “But what about all that till death nonsense?”

“I suppose it’s partially apt... given that I just might kill myself if I were truly stuck with you forever. But I think it would be in our best interests to keep any research of that sort to ourselves.”

“Your mother might put a hit out on me.” There was a slight twitch in his expression which looked almost like laughter before he reined it in. It was probably noted in some archaic family guideline of behaviour that it was unbecoming for a Malfoy to laugh, or smile, or have a soul.

“Quite. All the more reason for stealth, I suppose. Really not a strong point of yours, but surely the threat of my mother is incentive enough?”

All jokes aside, she suspected it truly was.

She grinned then as a sudden and delicious realisation dawned on her. He eyed her suspiciously. “What?”

“I just realised that, in fact, I may not have to marry you at all.”

“And how do you figure that?”

She smiled. “Because Ron and Harry will not be able to restrain themselves from cleaning up the problem, you, when they hear the news. You know, my mood’s improved vastly now... and you know they say it’s frightful bad luck to go to sleep upset.”

He surveyed her with one raised brow. “Rather vicious, aren’t you? Perhaps you’re not entirely beyond hope, after all.” The twitch was there again. “Good night, Granger... Oh and do think to brush your hair next time; I really can’t be seen in public with you otherwise.”

For the third time in a matter of months, she reached into the pewter dish of green powder, stood in the fireplace and whizzed herself home. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to sink into the warm blankets of her bed and sleep until she forgot. The insane events of that evening would have to wait for tomorrow before she could begin to dissect and process them.

That was Hermione’s way, of course. She had to break things down into neat little pieces and put them back together in a way that fit, to her mind. The problem, in this scenario, was that there would be no fit, no right way of framing the words to make sense of them. In no respect could she, or anybody who knew her, accept the prospect of a proposal to Draco Malfoy.

It was utterly incomprehensible and yet, despairingly inevitable.


	5. The Announcements

...3 months to D-Day...

Hermione felt certain the person who once said that time healed all wounds had never been forced to consider the prospect of marriage with someone he or she hated in order to avoid losing a job, enduring a prison sentence or suffering death.

Frankly, no amount of time was going to heal that particular wound.

This was one that was going to fester for a long time, destroying her life and everything she had built up. It was for this reason that Hermione, although highly conscious that it could not be ignored forever, had at least been ignoring it for the last few weeks.

Hermione was not, by nature, prone to procrastination. She was the sort of person who liked to push up her sleeves and tackle a problem head on, in the most pragmatic way. Unfortunately, that sort of level headed, logical approach which had always faired her well, was not likely to work in this instance. And it wasn’t as though she was spending the time twiddling her thumbs.

She’d been extremely busy in the few weeks that had passed since Narcissa Malfoy dropped what could be unequivocally called the bombshell of the century. Given the very generous offer from the Ministry that she take some time off preceding her hearing, in the wake of all the scandal, Hermione had an abundance of time on her hands.

It was used wisely of course. Firstly, in brushing up on her knowledge of wizarding marital custom as it was really rather remiss of her to have neglected such an important area of study. She’d also managed to convince her slightly inept assistant to continue reporting to her on the sly. In Hermione’s opinion, this unexpected loyalty could counteract a whole multitude of sins and or incompetencies. She’d also had several lunches with Anthony under the guise of discussing the progress on their bilateral agreements with foreign Ministries regarding the S.P.E.W. project.

All in all she’d been very busy indeed. She had not, however, utilised the time in planting the seeds as she was expected. This was an understandable quandary, she thought. After all, how would one casually slip it into conversation with friends that she was set to marry a man who, by all accounts, she found utterly intolerable.

A lot of energy had been expended on contemplating just how exactly she was going to announce the news to her family and friends, who would most assuredly not understand. She also figured that since the entire Malfoy way of life was about to be enforced on her in a very large way, she deserved a reprieve from them for the time being. Just a few short days to help her forget all about the saga. Only those days had turned into weeks, and the repeatedly ignored messengers from Malfoy Manor were starting to get a bit violent.

She tried not to think about how she’d been chased down the street only yesterday by a trio of rampaging white owls. They may have looked gentle in nature. They were anything but.

Hermione was planning to take one of the necessary steps tonight at her dinner with Anthony. She’d seen him on several occasions and had ample opportunities to tell him about what was coming, but since he had been so supportive of the mess she was in, she hadn’t quite worked up the nerve.

She may have been brave when it came to facing dragons and walking down dark allies, but admitting to a relationship with Draco Malfoy—one which ironically wasn’t even real—was just a step beyond her capabilities. In any case, it was too far along now not to admit it. Both she and Malfoy were due in at the preliminary hearing in two days time, at which point they would have to tell everyone of their engagement anyway.

Narcissa Malfoy was growing increasingly venomous in her missives, which informed Hermione that the announcement had to be made a certain way. And that certain way required Hermione’s obedience and attendance. These were demands to which she was, shockingly, uninclined to acquiesce. Personally, she was just relieved that the family hadn’t just gone ahead and announced the betrothal regardless of her cooperation. She truly could not bear the prospect of a surprise like that greeting all of her loved ones in the morning paper.

It would be unforgivable.

In fact, Anthony was likely to find it unforgivable in any case, because it would probably seem to him that she’d led him on. Nothing had happened, per se. Not even so much as a kiss on her doorstep, but it had all seemed to be leading that way to her, and she suspected to him as well.

“Hermione?” his voice interrupted the flow of her thoughts, and she cursed herself for getting lost in them once again. She’d never been the spacey sort of girl who gazed at dust particles, and now he probably thought she didn’t have an intelligent thought in her head.

She smiled guiltily as she turned her attention to him once more.

“Sorry… I just have so much on my mind at the moment; I got caught up in it. What were you saying?”

He shrugged, and she thought the way the candle light on their table caught the blond gleam of his hair was very fetching.

The restaurant was rather an intimate setting for what was, on paper, supposed to be a friendly catch up. Anthony had chosen it, and she’d felt slightly giddy as he took her hand and guided her to their little candle-lit table. In truth she would have preferred to sit somewhere that wasn’t in the middle of the restaurant, given the sensitive nature of what she had to tell him.

“It’s okay… you’ve been through the ringer.” He paused and she noticed the way he placed his hand on the table, very close to her own. Her stomach flipped, with delight or horror. It was hard to differentiate. “I just said that I think you look… lovely tonight.” He ducked his head a bit and a pink flush crept upon his cheeks, no doubt matching her own.

“Oh… thank you.” She was fairly certain the faint blush was darkening over her cheeks. It was both mortifying and stomach-flipping all at once. He was just so nice.

His fingers then brushed over hers pleasantly, and she knew that she had to tell him. In fact, she raised her eyes to his lovely blue ones and opened her mouth to tell him the truth. Or at the very least, the version of the truth that she was going to have to go with.

“Interrupting a cosy moment, I see.”

The introduction of those drawled tones to their lovely moment caused Hermione’s heart to stop. Her eyes widened in horror as she turned to capture the gaze of the tall, fair man standing by their table. His grey eyes were resting firmly on the point at which her fingers joined Anthony’s.

She knew, suddenly, that the night and all her hopes for solving things amicably were for nought. Anthony saw the expression in her eyes and seemed to take it that she didn’t want Malfoy there, which was true, but not for the reason he thought. His hand tightened over hers.

He cleared his throat and turned his most stern expression toward the intruder.

“Malfoy. I really think it best that you leave… we’re trying to have a nice dinner here. And Hermione’s been through enough with the trouble you’ve caused.”

Her heart sank. The words spoken were not unlike one waving a red flag before a bull. Malfoy cast her a quick look which told her exactly how things were about to play out, before turning back to Anthony.

She tried to interfere, but the increasing testosterone levels were too thick to cut through.

A pale brow arched in response and Malfoy tilted his head as though considering the words. “The trouble I’ve caused? Well now,” he said, “that’s rather interesting, given that you’re the one with your hands on my fiancée.”

Her heartbeat had been pounding so loudly in her ears that she hadn’t been able to say something—anything—to intervene, until the words were out of his mouth, rather loudly at that, and all noise in the restaurant ceased.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Anthony just stared at him, as did all the other curious eyes surrounding, before swivelling as one to her.

She glared at Malfoy with as much force as possible before turning her gaze to her companion. “It’s not what you think.”

“What are… he’s joking, right?” He looked like a contestant on one of those Muggle reality shows her father had always watched when she was little. In fact, the premise of this whole scene would have made a vastly entertaining episode, if she weren’t the main player.

“No… well—” she began before being interrupted again by Malfoy.

“I’m not, actually… so I’m sure you can imagine how I’m feeling right now. You don’t seem like the sort of bloke to pursue—”

The screeching sound of Anthony pushing his chair back drowned out the rest of Malfoy’s comment. His hands were raised as he stared at her.

“You must think I’m an idiot,” he said, staring at her. “This whole time I think we’re taking it slow because that’s what you wanted… didn’t want to push it, you know… because of all the drama in your life. And all along the problem with him,” at this he jerked his thumb in a self-satisfied Malfoy’s direction, “is that he’s your husband to be?”

Hermione jumped swiftly to her feet. “I was going to tell you tonight… I… it just happened and—”

“Now, now, Granger… don’t lie. We’ve been together for months, actually. Just kept it secret because of her friends… rather tetchy lot they are.”

“But you can’t stand him!” This was Anthony again.

“Yes, well... she seems to get along fine with you, but I’m guessing that little display of hand holding is as far as you’ve got.” Malfoy shrugged conspiratorially. “Women.”

Anthony cast his gaze between the two, before resting a final disgusted look at her and storming out of the restaurant. The crashing of the door behind him broke the silence in the vast room, and a buzz of chattering swarmed around them.

She stared at Malfoy, who was smirking at her and passing his gaze over the folds of her simple midnight blue dress. “You look like a female, who would have thought.” He whispered the words and leaned closer to her.

As much as she wanted desperately to push him away and follow after her date, she knew she had little choice. She could see it for what it was now, a ploy to showcase their relationship. She glared at him as he leaned close and brushed his palm down the exposed skin of her arm. She shivered at the contact, and he grinned in response. One hand lifted to brush errant curls from her face, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Thought you were taking too long to get the story out. You should thank me… now that I’ve done your dirty work for you.” She hissed in response, but before she could say anything, she felt him tugging her closer. “There’s a fellow in the corner with a camera… be convincing.”

His arms braced her back and she stiffened immediately. The word wrong kept reverberating through her brain. She tried her best to quell it though, to soften her fists, which were so desperate sought to pummel him, into palms placed gently against his shoulders. Their cheeks brushed and the slightly spicy scent of him invaded her nostrils.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

He pulled back then smirking down at her as he was wont to do. “That ought to satisfy the gossip-mongers. Get your coat.”

She did just that, not unaware that had she been leaving with Anthony, he’d have done the gentlemanly thing and fetched it for her. For a man who prided himself on his breeding, she really thought Draco Malfoy had abominable manners.

With her head held high, Hermione followed him through the throng of tables and smiled weakly at the confused Maitre d’. Almost as soon as she stepped into the cool night air, she felt Malfoy grab her wrist and the inevitable pull behind her navel which signalled Apparition.

With a pop she landed, blessedly on her feet this time, in the narrow corridor of her building. She couldn’t deny she was grateful to avoid a visit to the Manor, but she was getting entirely fed up with his presumptuous use of side-along Apparition. Her nemesis was leaning, quite casually, against the corridor wall, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Quite drafty out here. Do take your time…”

“Get out of my corridor right now! I’m not in the mood to deal with you or your psychotic owls.” She scowled at him and turned her wand to the doorway, simultaneously lowering the wards and turning the small silver key.

She slipped inside and made to slam the door in his face, but he’d moved forward quickly to shove a foot in the doorway. He easily pushed the door open and strode by her.

To say that Hermione was exasperated by the evening’s proceedings was an understatement. She was suddenly incredibly exhausted, wanting nothing more than to curl up with Crookshanks, a good book and pretend it had never happened. He was clearly not going to let her.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, turning to face him, her cheeks flushed with anger. “I was going to tell him tonight… you couldn’t just let me do it in my own time?”

“No, Granger… I couldn’t. Your own time seems to be taking an eternity and we’re due at the Ministry in two fucking days!” He stared at her like she had three heads, like she was the horrible person destroying both of their lives.

“You did it on purpose… so that everyone will know within minutes, my friends included. Congratulations, you were thorough.”

He didn’t look at all repentant. “Perhaps if you’d answered one of the many owls I’d sent you it wouldn’t have come to this. I don’t want to marry you… I don’t want to look at you again for another century.”

She looked at him, noting his own flushed cheeks and aggravation. It was sometimes difficult to recall how it was affecting him too, because of his composure and constant smart arse remarks. He’d even mentioned something about a girlfriend at one stage.

She sighed, raking an agitated hand through the tumult of her hair. “I know, okay. I know… I just… I really didn’t want it getting out that way.”

He snorted with laughter. “No matter what way it got out Goldstein wasn’t going to be happy. Your friend’s will get over it, though.” He shrugged, before casting a sly looking her direction. “And anyway... really? Him?… bit of ponce to be honest.”

“I think... what? He is not! Anthony Goldstein is a gentleman and—”

“Nobody moves that slow... how long have you been seeing him, Granger? Or is it that he once saw you in that jumper you wore to the—”

“A few months and... well we’re friends, not that it’s any of your—”

“Months! What did I tell you? A ponce.”

“Shut up, Malfoy... and anyway are you planning on filling me in on your own relationship? No doubt some highly pretentious, equally pasty looking girl who—”

He shot toward her so fast her head nearly spun, his hand pressed to the base of her neck and rested heavy on her collarbone. Her eyes flew to his in alarm.

“Don’t ever talk about her like that.”

She was almost at a loss for words at the strength of his reaction, and its intrinsically violent nature.

She swallowed, speaking slowly because she felt no urge to make him press harder on her larynx. She’d never attributed any great strength to him before, but she was suddenly very conscious of how breakable she was by comparison.

“So it’s okay for you to make disparaging comments about my love life, but I can’t—”

“You don’t have a love life. I thought we already ascertained that.” He let go of her then, and took a step back. He cast his ashy gaze away from her when she rubbed gingerly at her throat.

“Was there a reason you came here, other than to harass me further?”

With an ease that disconcerted her, he slipped back into his flippant, drawled tones. “That’s usually incentive enough, but on this occasion yes... I did have a reason.” His hand slipped into a pocket and removed a small black box. Her eyes flew up to his. “You’ll need this... but don’t lose it. That ring is worth more than you are.”

Her mouth dropped open to respond, but she quite forgot what she had planned to say because a loud thumping started at her front door. This was followed by repeated shouts of her name in a couple of very familiar voices.

Her gaze flew to his.

“Are you connected to the Floo Network? Because I rather think that’s my cue to leave.”

Well, she thought, at least he was gone. Now she had a few very hot heads to deal with. The pounding continued, even after Malfoy had left. Still holding the small box, she went to open the door.

Harry and Ron looked like they’d been arguing on the way over, and had clearly warmed to their topic.

“Where is he?” Ron prowled around the room like a caged animal when she finally let him in.

“It’s a joke, right? You’re not actually engaged to Malfoy?” This was Harry, clearly trying to compensate for the lack of tact shown by Ron.

“If you thought it was a joke then why did you come pounding on my door like a pair of lunatics?”

Ron stopped to look at her and Harry’s mouth was partially agape. This was probably because there was nothing appeasing about her tone. In fact she was rather fed up with high testosterone levels today and the last thing she needed was a lecture from her friends.

“I don’t believe it,” said Harry finally.

Neither did she.

She took a deep breath and opened the small box. Inside was the diamond ring she’d been expecting, in all its square cut beauty. She resented it immediately though, because it didn’t mean anything. She slipped it on nonetheless, trying to ignore the alien feeling.

“Look... we’ve been keeping it a secret because I knew this was how you’d react. It just… happened. And I—I shouldn’t have to justify my feelings to you both. I know you’re concerned but...” She just shrugged and neither of them seemed to know how to respond.

“This has something to do with the trial.” The words, spoken in a relatively calm voice, had come surprisingly enough from Ron.

“No it... you’re both harbouring grudges. But you can’t because I lo—I’m marrying him. Now go, both of you. We can discuss this tomorrow. It’s been a crazy night and I have a lot going on so...”

They both cast each other determined looks, which spoke plainly of their suspicion, and allowed her to push them out the front door.

When it was closed she slumped against its solid weight, relishing the comforting purr of her feline friend who came to join her. Crookshanks at the very least wasn’t angry with her. It made a refreshing change.

Hermione looked down at the gleaming ring on her left hand. It was a prop for their play, but thus far she had been horrendously unconvincing. Whilst she had known that neither of her friends would accept the situation, they knew her too well; she had to at the very least make an attempt at convincing everyone else. How she was going to achieve that, she wasn’t entirely sure.

And she now had further issues to consider. She had to stop thinking of Draco Malfoy as the spoilt little boy he had once been, had to reconcile him with the man he had become. The problem being that she didn’t really know what sort of man that was.

He flipped personas like he was putting on new masks, and each was as perplexing to her as the other. One thing she had determined, however, was that in spite of her doubts that anybody could love such a man, clearly there was someone out there that he loved back. It was the most troubling thought of all.


	6. The Performance

...Two Months to D-Day...

Hermione had never been an especially good liar; this came, she supposed, from an innately honest nature and pragmatic attitude. She had always been a firm believer in tackling one's obstacles head on. This was something that was clearly so intrinsic in her mentality that those who knew her well were acutely aware of it. In fact, Ginny had once told her that this refusal to use her feminine wiles—whatever that meant—was a key reason why her relationships hadn’t worked out thus far. Mystery was important, she’d said. Hermione wasn’t sure she knew how to be mysterious.

In any case, she never really placed a lot of stock on this advice, being that it went against the grain, and that in truth it had been entirely unimportant to her. Until recently. Until it had become vital to the success of everything.

It was only now that Hermione could see the wisdom in those words, for a reason she was fairly certain her friend had never intended. With all of this borne in mind, she had something of an epiphany. After all, if there was one thing in life that Hermione insisted upon, it was success. It really didn't matter whether that success lay in the classroom, her office or her personal life. In this case, that success hinged upon convincing the world—as best she could—that she was in a relationship with Draco Malfoy, and that she wanted to be.

It was a steep task, she knew, for several reasons. Not least of all was the fact that she could barely tolerate him, let alone share looks of infatuation over the dinner table. She’d also never been in love before, not real grown up, adult love. She’d had her fancies and what not in her youth, but none of that was real. It wasn’t what Harry and Ginny had, though they’d found it so young. In fact, she’d taken to watching their interactions rather closely of late, much to the great consternation of Harry who had looked somewhat alarmed at finding her staring at him with quill and notebook in hand.

Really, when she thought about it, it was somewhat remiss of the general writing public to have not put together some sort of manual for this situation, given the wizarding world’s archaic predisposition toward arranged marriages.

Without such aids at her disposal, she found herself reliant on the observations of Harry and Ginny, and indeed thought they were quite helpful. It was all in the softening of Harry’s eyes when he looked at her, and the pretty way Ginny still blushed beneath his gaze. It was the little details, Hermione now understood, the gentle touches and whispered words.

When they looked at each other, it was like she wasn’t there. Ironically there was an element of that in her interactions with Malfoy, insofar as they were so caught up in wanting to throttle each other to the exclusion of all others in the room. Somehow, shockingly, she didn’t really think that was going to help.

They were getting a bit better at the charade though. In fact, Malfoy was disturbingly good at it. She supposed that came from his being the poster boy for Slytherin characteristics: deception and cunning. He’d thrown her off on more than one occasion by looking at her with something like affection—or at the very least without his perpetual sneer, which she rather thought amounted to the same thing—and touching her cheek, while leaning in to whisper softly in her ear.

To all watching, and there were many, it would have looked like sweet nothings. In reality, it was usually something disparaging about her hair, her clothes, her very being. The self control it took not to shove him away was causing severe strain on her muscles and her mind. She had never really considered herself to be a particularly violent person, and yet there was something about the man that had, from the first, caused such a visceral reaction in her. In all the years it had not abated.

Enduring it was a necessary evil though, what with all of the media attention surrounding their surprise engagement. They had known suspicions would be immediately aroused; they just had to do their level best to overcome them.

The first step, of course, had been at the preliminary hearing. The court had already heard the news of their betrothal through the Daily Prophet but confirmation was required. As Mr Astrophy had told them only a few short months ago, the case was immediately dismissed on the grounds that there was not enough evidence to go ahead. Hermione was only too conscious, though, that should they delay the wedding too long, it could rear up all over again. Certainly if the delightful Rita Skeeter could have her way. In fact, Hermione wouldn't be at all surprised to discover the wretched woman was having her watched every minute of the day.

As for the Ministry, they welcomed her back to work, all jovial chuckles and thumping handshakes. Of course no one had believed her to be up to anything unbecoming. Best to have the ugly business all cleared up, they'd said to her, rather patronisingly. There had been suggestions, however, that she cut back on her work a bit. Working a minimum of 50 hours a week was something apparently only appropriate for those who had nothing to go home to. She tried very hard not to be incensed by that.

As far as Hermione was concerned, the more time she could spend in her office, and the less time at tea with Narcissa Malfoy discussing fabrics and hors d'oeuvres the better.

The woman was in full orchestration mode; it made Hermione wonder whether she even slept. On the surface the matriarch might have seemed like any doting mother, keen to throw herself into planning the wedding of her only child. And indeed, that was probably how it appeared when, on a few slightly traumatic occasions, she had insisted on dragging Hermione around town in a flurry of shopping for bridal things. She was under no illusion though. If Narcissa could have it her way, the whole ceremony would be performed in a cave with no lighting and only a slight odour of mildew so that the woman could pretend it had never happened. She didn't really care about what ornamentations should line the aisle. She might have if Draco was marrying someone she approved of, or indeed someone of whom he approved. But no one was more conscious of the necessity of the performance for this charade of a marriage to be successful. After all, by her own hand, her son's life depended on it.

And so, in addition to beginning the preparations for what was to be a very short engagement, she was also planning the show that was Hermione and her son’s relationship. They had to be seen everywhere, she said both imperiously and, to Hermione's extreme vexation, frequently. Her lip would curl with distaste on each occasion before she surveyed Hermione with something akin to resignation.

As though Hermione was the problem in this whole situation. She tried very hard not to let it get under her skin that this intolerable woman clearly thought so lowly of her. Hermione was accustomed to a certain degree of respect from people, regardless of whether or not they actually liked her.

To make matters worse, there had even been one extremely uncomfortable occasion when Hermione had been summoned to breakfast with the Malfoy clan. The very idea of sitting over crumpets and kippers with any of them had struck her as completely absurd. Yet, possibly more concerning, was the degree to which she was becoming accustomed to the dragging of her feet on their highly polished floor boards, of being in the horrible house and around those horrible people in general. It was just so very wrong, when she stopped long enough to think about it. In any case, that particular breakfast happened to be the first occasion on which she sat in the same room as Lucius Malfoy in years. Somehow she had managed to separate the mother and son from him and everything he represented.

He had been sitting at the head of their obscenely long dining table, partially obscured by a copy of the Daily Prophet. She’d twitched the entire time, sat opposite her very smug looking fiancé.

Finally the haughty older man had looked up momentarily to reach for his tea, before casting his gaze in her direction. “You are aware, my dear,” this was directed at Narcissa, in his carefully enunciated tone, “that there is a Muggleborn at the table?”

Hermione hadn’t really known how to deal with this comment. After his wife’s assent, he went on to mutter something about women and their projects, like the time his wife had arranged a little garden of geraniums on the front lawn, and allowed a very young Draco to keep a stray cat. Hermione supposed that to him, in this scenario, she was the stray cat.

Fortunately, for the most part, Lucius Malfoy kept entirely out of her way.

If only Draco could do the same.

The problem with that, of course, was that despite the fact that she knew he disliked her inherently, he also received a frustrating level of pleasure from her discomfort. And he was keenly aware that he had the most to lose from their arrangement falling through, while she suffered endlessly with its every success. It seemed to Hermione that, against his will, he had stumbled upon the best possible way to torment her, and he meant to make the most of that given their situation.

At present they were at a gathering held by Marionette Plume, the fussy and very old widow of a wealthy pureblood who had been famous for his books on the changing structures of magical plant life. Mrs Plume was equally famous but, in this case, for her high teas. It was considered something of a privilege to attend. Hermione knew this because she had tried to convince the old bat to contribute some of her very many galleons to the S.P.E.W. project on more than one occasion. She had then discovered that Mrs Plume, in addition to be being quite domineering, was also very uninclined to support anything that might see her glorified servants removed from her.

Whoever would make the scones, she’d asked in horror. Given her present company, Hermione should have been accustomed to the complete lack of sarcasm with which that response was accompanied.

In any case, the rotten woman was a dear friend of the Malfoy family, particularly Narcissa, and so they were frequent attendees of the frothy affairs. As loath as she was to admit it, there was something to be gained by the association, if only that it opened up new sources for her to seek out supporters of her cause. Of course, the downside was that many of the attendees were staunch advocates for the old ways, as they were so reverently described.

The afternoon was dragging endlessly, and it felt to Hermione as though they had been there for hours. After the initial introductions, for which she was forced to stand by Malfoy's side and throw him frequent fond glances, she had been left to her own devices.

So now she stood by the window in one of the parlours, tuning out the sounds of tinkling glasses and affected laughter. The view afforded was rather lovely, the grounds pristine and lush in the warm glow of afternoon sun. She took a deep breath, and pressed a palm to the fine silk of her dress. She didn’t feel at all herself. She didn’t look at all herself either, which was probably exactly Narcissa’s intention. Hermione may have consented to coming to this event, but not to the wardrobe approval that the interfering woman clearly believed she was entitled to.

While Hermione was never one to back down on anything, there was something so politely domineering about the older woman that seemed to catch her out every time. She was painfully elegant, something Hermione wasn’t sure she’d ever mastered. Certainly, she had impeccable manners, courtesy of her parents, and she would never raise poor attention to herself. However, physical appearance and dressing for these sorts of luncheons had never really been her concern.

She was a girl who stuck quills in her hair and had ink smudges on her fingers.

Malfoys didn’t have ink smudges, nothing to mar their pearly skin. It was a constant reminder that she was nothing like the Malfoys at all. And she’d never felt more out of place than when she was in this world, when she could be sitting over tea and cakes at Molly Weasley’s kitchen table chatting with her friends instead.

“Hermione...” She turned quickly at the voice, its warm but uncertain tones, which she recognised immediately. She hadn’t seen Anthony Goldstein at all since that horrible evening when Malfoy had announced their engagement. He’d been avoiding her of course; she didn’t blame him.

He looked lovely in the early afternoon sunlight. His golden hair glinted and his small and slightly uncomfortable smile tugged at something within.

“Oh, Anthony... I... how are you?” she finally asked, not really sure what to say. She was thrilled he was talking to her, that he was here, simply so that there was someone she knew other than the Malfoys. In fact, her discomfort was probably exactly why he had approached her. He was just so decent like that. “I’m sorry... about—”

He shrugged, his palms sliding into his elegant trousers. “It’s fine... I won’t confess I understand but..." He cast her a quick and more assured glance. "We’re friends, right?”

She grinned, relief singing through her veins. “Definitely.”

She felt warm beneath his gaze, which lingered perhaps more than it should. “You look lovely,” he finally said.

That was true. Narcissa had refused to let her out until she’d been done up appropriately. A hand lifted self-consciously to brush the softly swept curls that framed her face. “Thank you,” she said.

“I thought it best to keep you company... You looked a bit.” He shrugged again. “And Malfoy’s over there talking to Astoria which will probably set some tongues wagging...”

Her gaze flew over in search of whom Anthony was referring to. She saw them immediately, standing in a corner—extremely close together—and talking to one another. The girl, Astoria, was fair skinned, dark haired and lovely. Hermione couldn’t help but note the way Malfoy was looking at her, softly like she was some delicate flower to be cherished. Ridiculous to think that Draco Malfoy even had that look in his repertoire.

Anthony clearly thought she was upset by the sight of them, understandably given the circumstances, so he was obviously trying to distract her. “The, uh... the fountains are lovely to the left of the estate. Have you seen them?” She shook her head and he graciously asked if she would like to take a stroll.

She couldn’t have been more thrilled with the prospect of a brief reprieve. So she accepted his arm and allowed him to guide her to the side door. If Hermione had been paying more attention she might have noted the matching pairs of grey eyes tracking her every step.

They strolled in amicable silence along the narrow path that led the way. The sun was warm and glorious on her bare arms, and she grinned widely at her companion as they ambled along. He was right of course. The extravagant fountain was beautiful to behold, and she relished the sound of the rushing water.

“Hermione,” Anthony finally spoke, and she detected the serious note to his voice. She pressed her hands against the smooth stone of the fountain, and cast her gaze to him.

“Yes?”

"I..." He paused.”I've been watching you and I can't make sense of any of it." His hand rose to rub his neck, as though to signify his confusion.

Awkward, she thought. She was fairly certain she knew where he was headed. He didn't skirt around the issue though, which she found infuriating given how slowly he'd moved on all other accounts.

“You don’t love him, do you?” She made to interrupt and he held up a hand. “Don’t say anything... I just... you don’t look happy and,” he paused and took a breath, “I think, of anyone, I have the right to say it.”

She sighed, because it was true. He definitely deserved the honesty that she couldn't give him. “It's just—it’s very complicated, Anthony... but if things were different, if I weren’t with him...”

Hermione was well aware that she shouldn't be saying things like that, things that gave an impression contradictory to her actions. But she had reconciled herself to the fact that there would be some who just wouldn't believe her.

He nodded slowly. She could only suppose that whatever she had said was enough to satisfy his own suspicions.

They stood there for a while, lapsing into chatter about inconsequential things, and she wondered about what he had said, his observations. He, like his friends, could see something other than the charade. She supposed it didn't really matter if they did, as long as those opinions were kept relatively quiet. But she hated the thought that he knew she would marry someone with ulterior motives. It left a rather unsavoury taste in her mouth, and Hermione had never quite gotten over her concern with how she was perceived.

“We should probably head back now,” he said finally. She didn’t want to though; that room with all the flowers and sickly sweet perfume was far too stuffy. So she told him to head on without her and that she would follow in a minute.

He pressed warm lips to her cheek, his blue eyes regarding her in a way that made her wonder. She watched him as he left. Her thoughts were in freefall.

Of course this didn't last for long. Heaven forbid she have a moment to herself.

“Lovely spectacle you made there.” She whipped her head around to see Malfoy walking towards her, the line of his shoulders tense and his gaze narrowed. Just what she needed.

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned away from him to watch the rippling movements of the running water. She was startled when she felt his firm grip take her elbow and spin her around to face him. He stood very close, his fingers searing her skin and his eyes boring into her own.

She made to pull her arm from his grip but, while gentle, it was firm. “What is your problem now? And would you please stop man-handling me.”

He shook his head as he looked at her, as though she was the absurd person in this scenario. “You just embarrassed me in front of everyone. Walking off for a little interlude with Goldstein? Exactly how do you think that looks?”

Her eyes widened and she spat back at him, incensed at his hypocrisy and at the whole situation. “Probably the same way it looked when you were gushing over… Astoria, I believe her name is.”

He pulled back, startled, but recovered with the frustrating swiftness she was growing used to. “We were only talking... You actually left!” He leaned closer, an open palm falling to rest on the stone behind her. She could feel the heat of the sun and him searing through the thin fabric of her dress. “Let’s get one thing straight... you’ll not humiliate me like that again.”

That was it, she thought. She’d had enough of the bullying from him and his mother, all because of this situation.

She shoved him, her hands balled into fists against his chest. “You don’t have the right to dictate what I do! Stop making one set of rules for yourself and another for me.”

His nostrils flared as he stared at her, and she could see the tiny flecks of dark grey in his ashy gaze. When he spoke it was in a whisper that caused the fine hairs to dance across her nape. “I do, actually. Whether I like it or not, I’m being forced to marry you... One of the only privileges afforded me is the right to tell you not to see someone again. Take Goldstein for example.”

She gasped at that, at the sheer audacity of him. “You—”

He raised a hand to tug at her hair gently at first, and then he tangled several thick strands in his grip, pulling back so that her chin was tilted and her neck exposed. She swallowed, and he lowered his face, so that all she could see was his mouth hovering closely. “Don’t test me, Granger. I mean it.”

He released her and stood back in one swift movement, stalking away before she could regather her faculties. Small pebbles had broken out across her skin, and she brushed her palms over her arms to keep from shivering. She was a strong woman, had always stood her own against other men, and especially him, but somehow it was different now.

She was roaring inside, with the almost undeniable urge to either cry in frustration, or jump on his back and start slapping him endlessly. Denying both options, she took a deep breath instead and called out his name.

"Malfoy. Malfoy, wait." His frame stopped and she huffed as she trudged toward him. She was not about to let him leave her out here, having to follow on like some simpering woman who had just been reprimanded. "We can't let it look like we've had it out."

He turned to cast her a look and she could see it took a lot of self restraint. He raised a brow. "Why ever would they think such a thing," he muttered.

"Look... I didn't mean to embarrass you, or whatever you seem to think. I just needed some air... This is... difficult." She was quite impressed with this olive branch, with her maturity. He certainly didn’t deserve it.

He looked down at her and his lip curved slightly. "Of course, I should have realised... civilised society, not something you're used to... Seeing people eat with cutlery instead of their hands must take some adjustment."

He even managed to say it with something akin to sympathy, a tone one might perceive as thoughtfulness if they weren't so keenly aware of his mastery with an insult.

"You're an absolute prat, you know that? On a scale beyond measurement," she muttered as they walked side by side toward the main parlour.

"Why, thank you, Granger." He even gave her one of his smirks as he held the door open, allowing her back into the hungry lion’s den, full of waiting eager eyes.

It was going to be a very long afternoon.

As she stood in that room, by his side, sipping wine and trying to smile, she suddenly felt very small in the gaping hole that was her future. She wanted nothing more than to be rid of all of them. She would be, somehow. She was absolutely determined that some way, somehow, she would find a way to rid herself of this situation. That she had to marry him was undeniable, but beyond that it was fair game as far as she was concerned.

The very minute Hermione got home to her cosy flat, she was going to start looking into breaking marital contracts, because she did not want to spend one more day married to the brute than necessary.

He may have thought that his intimidation tactics signified the end of their conversation, but he was wrong. He didn’t like her talking to Anthony because he couldn’t bear the thought of people thinking his fiancée was going behind his back, no matter that he didn’t care two sickles about her. Well, he could think what he wanted; she was going to continue being friends with Anthony regardless.

Indeed this thought was foremost in her mind as she stood in that sunny room, with the weight of someone's eyes upon her. She didn't need to cast her gaze in that direction to know they belonged to the slender and very pretty brunette with whom he had been talking.

She doubted very much that he intended to stop talking to the lovely Astoria either.


	7. The Preparations

_...One Month to D-Day..._

Hermione was exhausted. It was a kind of physical and mental weariness she had only ever known during those months on the run, right at the very heart of the war when she had feared for her life and her friends with every fibre of her being. While fear had abated, her present circumstances were taking a similar toll. She had never really considered, back when the whole mess had started, just how much of a personal cost it would be. She had only thought about the outward consequences, the things that people would say. But now she knew just how high that cost was. She was weary from the constant bickering with Malfoy, and the endless stream of horrible things he said to her. Her defensive walls against such barbed remarks had been in place for years, and she clung to them in the heat of the moment. It was at night though, while she was home in the safe knell of her flat, when the toll became clear.

She couldn't bear the thought of him knowing how hurtful he was, or how the sting of his barbs nestled and festered. She was tired of pretending it was all okay, the sleepless nights, perpetual arguments with her friends, and the desire to cry in frustration and anguish at her pitiable situation.

Perhaps if the man, Malfoy, had some redeeming qualities, she might have coped okay, she might have battled through. But the thought of spending any more time than necessary in his company bewildered her, because she had begun to wonder whether the quiet time she used to collect herself would be taken away too. Then all of her explosive feelings would bleed out in the day to day business of it all.

Then he would know. It shouldn't matter if he knew the effect he had. After all, that was why he said those things, to hit the mark. But she couldn't bear the prospect of him seeing her crumble to it all. Her dignity was at this stage intrinsically linked with her sanity. It was one of the few things that had carried her through.

Whatever about Malfoy though, the person she was most angry with was herself. After all, _she_ had allowed this to happen. Absurd self-righteousness and ambition had led her down a path that common sense should have told her was dangerous. Why had she not listened to instincts that were so well honed?

It was a question that haunted her, because she truly could not understand now, with the benefit of hindsight, just what she had been thinking all those months ago.

She wasn't a stupid, naive girl. And yet she had been, somehow. Her mistake was far greater than those of most stupid and naive girls she knew. She who had always prided herself on her sense and ability to sidestep the traps before her.

Hermione also knew that, in the overwhelming scale of it all, she had given up far too much ground to the Malfoys. She had let them bully her repeatedly, unfathomably. She couldn't change the past, but her reflections upon such things had caused her to push back her shoulders and refuse to be bullied any further.

She would not be the one to continue making sacrifices while Malfoy benefited from their arrangement. That realisation had been like a blow to the gut, and it had happened right after that horrendous afternoon by the fountain. She had decided that enough was enough.

She had to go ahead with it all; that was a fate she was tied to. But the way in which she went about it all was still very much in her control. She hated that she had somehow lost sight of that important fact.

Time had seemed to run away from her, such that they were now down to weeks until the wedding. Yet as difficult as it had been, in many ways she felt far more like herself now. Reinvigorated, almost. That take-charge, take-no-prisoners attitude which had served her well was back. Thank Merlin for that.

She had told them, Draco and his mother, that she would call the whole thing off—repercussions be damned—if some concessions weren’t made immediately. The first of which was that in the absence of her own mother—something she tried not to think about—Mrs Weasley and Ginny would both be heavily involved in the preparations for the wedding, regardless of Narcissa Malfoy’s dictatorial plans to commandeer the whole thing. The expression on the latter’s face had been like she’d just swallowed lemons. So really, not all that different to normal.

Draco, in his inimitable style, had told her, “Granger, I don’t give a fuck who is involved, just let’s get it over with.” He’d then turned to his mother in exasperation. “I’m not going to prison just so you have the right to pick bloody ornaments.”

Really, if it were left to the two of them, it would have been done in secret with no one the wiser. More's the pity, she thought.

He did sneer though, at the prospect of the Weasleys on his front lawn for the ceremony. Narcissa’s stare had been imperious when she asked, “Why are _they_ to be involved, and not your own mother?”

Hermione blinked at the time, the question quite taking her unawares. It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked errant questions about her parents. She tended to side-track them when she could though, because the topic was acutely painful.

“I don’t have parents anymore… the war…” She always left it there, and let people come to their own conclusions. Naturally they always assumed that her parents had died, and she would almost prefer people to think that. Especially people, like the Malfoys, whom she wouldn't trust as far as she could throw them, which considering her lamentable hand-eye coordination, wasn't very far.

This wasn't the case, though. Her parents were still very much alive, settled in Australia with their successful dental practice, living a life in which she had no part. It was partly for their protection that she kept up the guise with all but those who knew her best. The fact was that she _had_ gone back for them after the close of the war, when it was safe to bring them to England. She could still recall the way she had felt when they didn’t recognise her even after she attempted to lift the powerful memory charm.

She had known then that she had to say goodbye. She would never risk causing permanent damage just so that she could have them back again. It was the selfless thing to do. But the memory of her happy youth, her mother’s soft words and her father’s indulgent smiles made the loss beyond anything she could describe. It seemed unfair to her that she was forever the one to make such personal sacrifices.

She chose to focus on the fact that they were happy, that they no longer had the knowledge that their daughter lived so far out of their own world as to make them feel like strangers. And she wasn’t alone; she was fortunate enough to have another family: a huge one that had accepted her from when she was only young. The Weasleys were generous with their affection beyond words.

Of course she never said all of this to the Malfoys when the question was raised, and Narcissa for once didn’t have a barbed response. In fact, her expression was rather shadowed as she looked at Hermione. The latter could only suppose that the woman's innate maternal instinct overrode her general disdain for Hermione on that occasion. Draco had looked at her strangely, but then she tried not to think too much about his thought process.

Interactions between the two of them had been incredibly tense since their run-in at the fountain. She suspected he didn’t want to get into an all-out brawl about it either, as argumentative as they were usually. They were both conscious that they had to put up with each other for the time being, and she supposed they were doing it to the best of their abilities.

While she was making her best effort to disregard his less amiable qualities, the option of outright avoiding him was nonexistent. She had seen him every other day, over brunches and dinners and shows. She’d been to shops and seamstresses, fittings and whatnot so much so that all she seemed to be talking about were cakes and lace and flowers. And really she didn’t care two figs about any of these things! She just wanted to get back a sense of normalcy.

All of these preparations were one thing, but there was an element that was worse, one she dreaded above all else.

The dancing lessons.

They were a trial beyond anything she had ever endured. When she cast her mind to pinpointing the aspect she most disliked, it was a struggle.

The instructor, who clearly shared Hermione’s future mother-in-law’s opinion of her, was forever lamenting her lack of grace and finesse. Hermione was forever lamenting the odious man’s sharp tongue.

Phillias Strup was all flourishes and clipped enunciation, high affected tones and disdainful glares. He was also, as he was wont to remind her at every opportunity, foremost in his field. Whatever his skills at teaching dance might have been, Hermione rather thought his ability to make even the most graceful swan feel like a dowdy strumpet far exceeded them.

And although Hermione had never declared herself as the aforementioned swan, she had always considered herself to be quite graceful and in possession of impeccable manners. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter and graciousness was important, even to Muggles.

Whilst she had never had formal dance lessons, she had done rather well with the short teaches of the formal mode before the Yule Ball in her fourth year. Granted that was a long time ago, but once Hermione mastered something, she rarely ever forgot it.

According to the delightful Monsieur Strup, which Hermione was loath to call him as he was, categorically, not French, she was little more than a rhythmically challenged bundle of limbs.

“Miss Granger,” he would say, “why are you—you’re hunching! HUNCHING!”

His frequent muttering, and the repeated dabbing of his sweat-free brow with a lacy confection was making her all the more tense.

She supposed she could deal with him, however annoying the man might be. It was the constant swirling about in Malfoy’s arms that was the major issue. It didn’t feel right to have his palm on her lower back, his hips so close to her own.

If he was as perturbed by the whole thing as she was then he didn’t show it. Indeed, he was doing splendidly, a fact which aggravated her further, because she knew she would do just fine if she didn’t have to dance with _him_. It made her uncomfortable and tense.

In any case, she had the distinct impression that he’d been forced into lessons of this sort from a young age. No doubt dancing also had to do with upholding the family name. Yet more values which she found utterly incomprehensible.

One would have thought that so many months of exposure to him, in _such_ close a proximity, would have made him seem less grating. All it did, in fact, was serve to remind her that this was the man she was expected to spend her life with. Absurd.

She had always known that the wizarding world was intrinsically archaic and that the pureblood lines as old as the likes of the Malfoys turned their noses up at modern notions deemed to be distinctly Muggle in nature.

Divorce, as she had learnt, was possible nowadays in the wizarding realm. There were many stipulations involved in applying for them, and they were notably very rare in situations that didn’t involve marital relations with an actual Muggle. The concern for Hermione was that consent was required from both families in addition to the two parties. While Hermione felt very confident that Draco would rather withstand the shame of a divorce than spend his life with her, she didn’t think his parents would be quite so liberal on the topic.

It didn’t make much sense to her when she mapped it all out, because she was fairly certain they would expect Draco to have children, to pass on the family name and all that business. They certainly wouldn’t want a half-blood child polluting their lines, and in any case it was a moot point because she would be as virtuous as a nun before _ever_ jumping into bed with Draco Malfoy.

On the basis of that alone, she could only hope they would be swayed. And if not, well she would keep searching. In the meantime, she intended to keep her head up high and try not to let them all drive her insane. That was, of course, if she even made it to the wedding… after all, another lesson with _Monsieur_ Strup was likely to do just that.

This was her fourth lesson and she had hoped her last, but based on the disgruntled expression on the man’s face she somehow suspected otherwise. Hermione felt the weight of her partner’s hand slide up from the base of her spine and press between her shoulder blades.

When she cast him a strange look he responded archly, “You heard him, Granger. You’re _hunching_.”

“You’re too tall,” she muttered irritably. Not that this fact had anything to do with it; discomfort was the actual cause, but she was loath to say as much.

He made a noise that seemed somewhere between a snort and a laugh, which made her raise her eyebrows at him.

“It’s hardly my fault you’re small.” He dropped his hands from their position and pressed his palms around the circumference of her waist. Her gaze flew up to his, the breath leaving her at the unexpected feeling of his hands so firmly on her in that way.

It wasn’t the same as when he had her hand wrapped in his or his other on her back, because that was formal and necessary. He didn’t usually touch her unless it was forced. It was like a secret consensus between them.

And he was right, with his hands there wrapped about her, she felt very small indeed. She hated that reminder. His grey eyes were intent for a second and then he let go of her as though he’d been burnt.

“Did I _tell_ you to stop?” It was the dance instructor again. She could have thanked him for his rude tone at such a strange moment.

Malfoy let out a breath that sounded distinctly amused. "You know, it's rather enjoyable watching you get shirty with someone else for a change."

She arched a brow with him, comfortable with the return of the status quo. "Fearful you'll lose your place as the most irritating person in my life?"

A quirk lifted the corner of his mouth. "I really doubt there's any risk of that, don't you?"

If it weren't for the fact that the vast majority of the time he was downright offensive, she could almost say he was amusing on occasion. Almost. And very rarely. Still though, she supposed there had to be something that drew a girl in. A girl like Astoria, came the unbidden thought.

Perhaps he had some heretofore unknown charm beneath all of the layers of superiority, sarcasm and entitlement.

Or perhaps, and Hermione suspected this might be the more likely case, the girl in question was simply too stupid to fully grasp what he was saying when he spoke to her. Either way, whether she realised it yet or not, Hermione's absurd decision-making had probably saved her from a very large mistake.

She glanced at Malfoy again. "No, you're quite right. Whether it's the arrangement of your features, or just every time you open your mouth... I can't decide. Either way, you _are_ just naturally gifted in the art of irritation."

She smiled sweetly as the amused smirk slid from his mouth.

*

The warm flames of the hearth and the comforting familiarity of the Burrow were like a balm to Hermione’s fraught nerves. She was sitting over a cup of tea and some of Molly Weasley’s delicious homemade biscuits and thoroughly enjoying every moment.

Molly and Ginny had both been wonderfully supportive ever since the announcement of her impending marriage. She knew that they were both concerned, could read it in the clear blue of their matching eyes at every turn, but whatever their thoughts they held them in. Instead of following in the path of brash argumentativeness like both Harry and Ron, they were trying their best to be supportive.

Hermione was rather surprised by this turn of events as neither of the Weasley women were noted for their tact, but she was grateful nonetheless. She could only suppose that they were trying to fill the void of her own mother, who wouldn’t be there to fuss over her daughter as she otherwise would.

And in spite of her very great aggravation toward her closest friends, she could hardly deny that she understood where they were coming from. After all, if Ron had turned around one day to announce his betrothal to Pansy Parkinson or Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione would never have believed it. In fact, she'd have fought tirelessly to find out what was going on. In some ways she was grateful for their concern, thankful even.

Still, she had no answers for their repeated questions, and found the constant arguments and interrogations to be a headache. So while she knew that Molly, Ginny and even Arthur were very disbelieving of the whole thing, she appreciated the way they tried their level best to respect her choice and simply help out. Whatever was being said behind her back about it she didn’t know and couldn’t raise the energy to think too long on something so beyond her control.

“Hermione, dear,” Molly called her attention away from such thoughts. “I wanted to ask you something…”

She cast her gaze toward the Weasley matriarch, noting her hesitation.

“Mum wants to know if you would like to wear Muriel’s tiara,” Ginny piped in.

Hermione felt a burst of warmth low in her stomach. In truth she would only have thought that offer would be extend if she and Ron had ended up together. She knew what the tiara meant to Molly Weasley, who only ever offered it within the family. Her smile was a little tremulous when she said, most fervently, that she would love to.

“And never you mind what Narcissa Malfoy has to say on the matter,” the older woman said, now up to bustle around the kitchen.

She grinned. “I don’t care two figs.”

As far as Hermione was concerned, the tiara was exquisite and if she was being forced to marry a man she abhorred then she was going to do it her own way, wearing something that had meaning to her. And more importantly, she wanted it to have meaning to her friends, because they wouldn’t rest in trying to figure it all out if they believed for one minute that she wasn’t happy.

With a quick glance at her watch, Hermione bid goodbye to both women. It was one of the very few afternoons she’d had to herself in the past few weeks and she planned to make the most of it.

She had arranged to meet up with Anthony and she had no intention of being late.

*

The wind whipped around her hair and tickled her skin; the freshness of it was lovely, though. She relished the chance to soak up the solitude and the freedom. After the orchestration that was her entire engagement and the subsequent claustrophobia she had repeatedly experienced, these quiet moments were a delight to be cherished.

Hermione was sitting on a bench in a little children’s park not far out of London. It meant nothing to anyone but the people who lived on the neighbouring streets. Hermione knew it well because it sat right opposite to the dental practice that her parents had owned all through her youth. When she was eight or nine and infatuated with sitting on the swing set and reading a book, her parents would take turns on lunch breaks to push her, letting her feet fly high up in the sky.

She came here sometimes when she didn’t want to be found. It was funny watching all the other children and wondering if any of them would be like her, swept up into a world beyond their reckoning.

There was something to be said for the simplicity of Muggle Life: the stability and the security of it.

“Hermione,” the low and warm voice made her look up. Anthony strode across the lush green grass underfoot, and she admired how he looked in the pale gleam of the sun.

“Anthony,” she said by way of greeting.

She had asked him to come and meet her for several reasons. The first of which was that she felt she owed him some sort of explanation. Of course, there wasn't really anything she _could_ say, but he had proffered the branch of friendship and she planned to grasp it with both hands. The second reason was that she had a burning desire to flagrantly disregard Draco’s strictures about whom she could spend her time with.

It wasn't the first time that she'd seen him since the tea party; it was impossible not to bump into him at work, but that wasn't really an appropriate time to chat. And she knew that he felt a little uncomfortable around her now. That was pretty understandable given the circumstances. This was why she had asked him to come and meet her here, and had been very relieved when he had finally agreed.

She had no intention of them being spotted, of course, but she planned to let Malfoy know in no uncertain terms that he was not to boss her around.

“I wish we didn’t have to meet like this… in secret,” her companion said.

She shrugged. “I’ve been hounded by reporters, and frankly Draco’s mother doesn’t trust me very much. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had people following me about.”

"Is that how this is going to work?" He raised a brow. "Us being... friends, I mean. All this sneaking around?"

She blew out a sigh and kicked at the tufts of grass underfoot.

"It's not fair, I know, but everything is so crazy at the moment that I think it might be for the best." She paused. "At least until after the wedding."

He gave her a sidelong look, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I suppose it could be fun, meeting up behind Malfoy's back. Forgive me, but I find the idea of pissing him off quite appealing."

She stifled a laugh. "Yes... he does have a special knack for bringing out that instinct."

"In you as well?" he queried with a slight grin.

"Oh, me most of all," she replied easily.

She knew she could never tell him in uncertain words how things were with Malfoy. Not that he seemed entirely without his own set of suspicions, which were probably fairly on the money. Still, he was one of the few people that she felt didn't need to believe in the hype about her future marriage. She couldn't fake it around everyone in any case, and she selfishly enjoyed the uncomplicated nature of his company.

"I assume you still won't tell me what's really going on, so how about we just don't discuss it? I don't really fancy chatting about Malfoy anyway."

She grinned. "I think that's an excellent idea."

They chattered on for what felt like hours, discussing inane things with an ease that hadn't been there before, back when there had seemed a possibility of something more between them.

And when he gave her the briefest peck on the corner of her mouth to say goodbye, she was quite surprised she didn't feel the swooping of butterflies she might otherwise have expected.

It was almost ironic that in the wake of the dreadful mess that her life had become, one thing had been improved in it all. A real friendship with Anthony was, in fact, a very lovely thing to have indeed.


	8. The Party

Chapter Seven: The Party

_...One day to D-Day..._

  


It was here, so to speak. Time had literally swallowed up all vestiges of her heretofore happy existence, and in less than 24 hours it would have swallowed all traces completely. Hermione wasn’t ready to be _married_ , let alone to someone she could barely tolerate. And telling herself it was a sham and that it didn’t mean anything was no help.

 

Because it _did_ mean something. It was marriage for goodness sake, and once she took those vows it meant that she would, forever, be bound to Draco Malfoy in a legal and binding way. Even if they did manage to swing a divorce, which she refused to believe would _not_ be the case, it would still be noted for all to see that at one point in time he had been her husband.

 

Somehow she had always assumed that if and when she did get married, it would be to some intelligent and lovely man who treated _her_ as his equal—never even mind the issue of magical creatures—and who got along splendidly with both her parents and her friends. And whilst Malfoy was clearly of reasonable intelligence, he exploited such capability in totally unscrupulous ways. He treated _her_ like so much baggage that he was stuck with and, in turn, her friends with complete abhorrence. She supposed that it was something of a cloud and silver lining that her parents would never have to bear witness to her marrying someone like him. They would have known incontrovertibly that she could never love such a man.

 

She could only hope that whilst she was stuck with him any latent redeeming qualities might come to the fore. And in the instance that such a wish was beyond the realm of possibility, she was simply going to keep to herself and go about her business. She would use his name and connections, for whatever they were worth, ruthlessly to support her cause. Despite how the whole mess had begun, she knew now that it wasn’t worth what had followed, but she had reconciled herself to that. To a degree, in any case. For now she would have to be satisfied with the vindictive sort of pleasure it might bring, which frankly was her due.

 

Hermione huffed irritably at the line of these thoughts, and trudged further along the never ending corridor, lined with all manner of expensive ornamentation and stuffy portraits. She was, at present, being led to the Eastern Wing of the Manor by a very nervous looking house-elf called Pimmy.

 

She tried not to think about just _how_ many house-elves were actually enslaved in the grand house. The mere idea of roomfuls of the innocent creatures locked up here had her itching to pull out her knitting needles.

 

In addition to this prevailing thought was that fact that, really, who needed a house with more than one wing?

 

“Miss is coming?” A voice squeaked up at her.

 

“Oh, right. Yes, Pimmy.” As she followed the wayward flapping ears with her gaze, she softened her voice. “Tell me… are you treated well? Because I think—”

 

“Granger, stop harassing my elves. Mufty already quivers in fear at the merest whisper of your name.” She tried not to grind her teeth at the interfering tones of Draco Malfoy. He seemed to never be around when she was battling with his mother, and was _always_ there when she wanted a reprieve.

 

“Master I is very sorry!” The sob-like cry was wrenched from the clearly distressed house-elf, shaking tremulously before her.

 

“It’s not your fault, Pimmy. You may go.”

 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed at the deeply reverent bow directed at Malfoy, before Pimmy disappeared with a loud and relieved crack.

 

“Go away, Malfoy. It’s my job to ask these things.”

 

“If I recall correctly, as I often do, it was this excessive need to cross the lines of your _job_ that got us here in the first place.” He raised a brow as though to challenge her. Obnoxious really, because it was hardly her fault he was always up to no good.

 

“Right, because your illegal proclivities and general shadiness had nothing to do with it,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “In any case, your extreme reluctance to allow me to even speak to your house-elves only further convinces me that at least _some_ of them are not so… brainwashed.” She arched a brow at him.

 

He assessed her coolly for a moment. “Granger, did it never occur to you to direct this,” he gestured in her direction, “ _fervour_ in a more receptive direction?”

 

“My fervour, as you call it, is really none of your business. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see my room.” She sniffed with as much hauteur and disdain as she could muster.

 

That was a lie. She had zero desire to see _her room_ , indeed the notion of even having one in this ridiculously large and cold house gave her the creeps. Though she had to display some semblance of domestic bliss with the infernal man, she would not be giving up the lease on her own flat. Indeed, she planned to spend as much time there as possible.

She wondered, briefly, whether there might be a fireplace in her suite. That would be delightfully convenient.

 

Malfoy interrupted her musings once more. “Since you scared off yet another house-elf, I’ll have to show you. Follow quickly and stop slouching.”

 

She glared at his tall frame as he walked ahead of her, leading the way. After they turned another corner, he waved expansive arms to signify their arrival at what she assumed was the East Wing. It was a large area, not unlike the main entry hall to the Manor, though of smaller dimension, and from here she noted a great many doors.  
  
He pointed at two doors to the left, indicating that they were guest suites. She couldn’t help but wonder at just how many guests they planned on having over at any given time.

 

“That door is off limits,” he said indicating one of two doors to the right.

 

“Why?” she asked, curious about the potentially sinister goings on behind that door.

 

He must have seen her narrow-eyed suspicion because he muttered something disparaging under his breath. This was a refreshing change since he usually had no qualms about being vocal on such points.

 

“Those are _my_ suites. If I catch you in there, I won’t hesitate to throw you out the window.” He crossed his arms not unlike the spoilt little eleven-year-old she so easily recalled. No doubt he hated the thought of her sleeping in such close quarters to him. The thought caused her neck to itch as well.

 

“ _Oh_ … well there’s no risk of that, then. So, is this me?” she pointed to the remaining door, eager to see to her things and leave his company. She didn’t wait for his response, and moved forward to push the door open.

 

The door knob didn’t budge beneath her questing fingers, and she was just about to turn around and say something, when his hand was planted against the wood, right by her head. She could feel the strange warmth of him uncomfortably close to her, and licked her dry lips.

 

“Do you mind?” she asked.

 

He leaned in toward her ear and she felt the errant strands of his hair tickle the side of her face. “Always so presumptuous, aren’t you?” He then muttered a quick spell and the door finally gave way. She hurried into the room and as far from him as possible.

 

“We keep the private rooms locked for this exact reason… so that nosy people can’t go rummaging.” He was watching her with eyes that might have been amused at her discomfort. Truthfully, it was hard to tell.

  
She turned away from him to take in her new rooms and noticed that, prison of a sort though it might be, it was a very pretty one at that. It was quite obscenely large, as everything on the estate seemed to be. The furnishings were rich mahogany and the bed was the lavish sort of four-poster one only expected to see in Hogwarts or the very old houses of the British aristocracy. She supposed, in some way, that was rather what the Malfoys were.

 

“It’s lovely,” she whispered, having quite forgotten he was there.

 

“Of course, it is. I rather expect it will be sufficient… given that your _house_ , as you called it, was approximately the size of a bathroom.” Something dawned in his expression then, and he pointed toward one of the doorways leading from the main room. “Speaking of bathrooms… your beast of a cat is in there as we speak. Tried to eat Pimmy earlier.”

 

His sneer was beyond aggravating. She glared at him before rushing to let poor Crookshanks out. “He would not do that… he’s very well trained, I’ll have you know.” As though to prove this point to Malfoy, her feline friend rushed forward and purred lovingly as he rubbed along her legs. “Why are you still here?”

 

“Just leaving,” he muttered, not taking his eyes of Crookshanks as he backed out of the suite. It reminded Hermione of the old westerns on Muggle television that she’d watched over many summers with her father. A Mexican standoff they called it.

 

The door clicked shut and Hermione reached down to scratch her pet behind the ears. Curiosity getting the better of her, she moved toward the other door and found it to be her dressing room cum wardrobe. She couldn’t help but bristle to realise that not only had it been filled with a whole lot of clothing she didn’t own—but that had clearly been acquired _for_ her—but someone, presumably Pimmy, had gone ahead and packed away all of her existing things. Knickers included.  

 

There were some things that people really _should_ do for themselves. She closed the door and moved toward the bed, and upon finding it rather comfortable, gave an irritated sigh. She didn’t want to live here… no matter how luxurious it all was. She wanted to stay in her cosy little flat with her overstuffed bookshelves and tiny kitchen. She wanted more than one wall to separate her from Draco Malfoy, and more than a few corridors and many pointless rooms to separate her from his _parents_.  

 

In fact, she couldn’t deny that she thought it dreadfully outdated for them to live in the Manor with his mother and father—Lucius Malfoy, no less! Didn’t even the stuffiest of purebloods move out of home these days? She knew Ron had, and he certainly wasn’t married.

 

Hermione sighed and leaned back on the plump pillows, allowing Crookshanks and his wonderful familiarity to curl up next to her. This would never feel like home. It would always be a stranger’s house and she would always be unwelcome. Throughout the whole ordeal, as terrible and confusing as much of it had been, the all-pervasive feeling of loneliness that overcame her in that moment was quite the worst part to deal with.

 

She was Hermione Granger, and had carried that name with pride, the last connection to her parents in a real and visceral way. Well, she thought, she’d always be just that. The same Hermione, always a Granger, no matter where she lived or with whom.

 

With some annoyance at her treacherous body, for daring to find the bed so comfortable, she fell into the thick and warm blanket of unconsciousness.

 

 

*

 

 

If there was one thing that Hermione really hadn’t wanted, it was a Hen’s party. It was just so trite given the circumstances. Ginny Weasley, however, was not to be deterred. And Hermione, unfortunately, was still supposed to be playing the happy bride… not that she’d been all that convincing thus far. The only comfort she drew in the fact was that it would be both a night out with friends, and hence a distraction from the prospect of tomorrow, and that it would get her out of the vast house.

 

Hermione cast a quick cursory glance in the mirror and decided that she looked about as good as she was going to, without succumbing to all manner of grooming lotions and potions. Malfoy was waiting downstairs for her, she knew. And she derived a great satisfaction from keeping him waiting, though she was rather surprised it wasn’t taking him longer to primp. He’d sent a house-elf—a different one again—to inform her of his displeasure at being kept waiting.

 

They had discussed, with surprising civility, their evening plans while at dinner; they were both off to meet friends for their necessary celebrations. A last hurrah and all of that. Of course, until Hermione was actually _married_ to the git, she had no way of getting through the absurdly large gate in order to Apparate. Her preferred method of travel was not possible within the Manor grounds due to the judicious use of wards.

 

As much as she was loath to take on his surname and bind herself to him in any way, she very much was looking forward to being able to come in and out of her own accord. It felt far too much like a prison now, and the Malfoys very rarely opened their many fireplaces up to the Floo Network. That would change, however, as to her great delight there was a fireplace in her suite, and Hermione would be damned if she told them of her plans to use it. The paranoia was positively rampant in their house.

 

Well, she supposed upon reflection, as former Death Eaters _and_ turncoats to their cause, it wasn’t all that surprising. They were hated by all who weren’t swayed by money. Sadly, as she had discovered much to her detriment, there weren’t all that many people who _weren’t_ swayed by money.

 

When she finally reached him in the hallway she felt an immediate burst of satisfaction at his clear look of irritation.

 

"Finally," he muttered.

 

"Sorry," she said, a sickly sweet smile lighting her features, "just thought I'd take in a spot of looting along the way."

 

He sneered in response, and she absently wondered if it was some sort of facial defect. "How thrilling it is to know that my family will now be responsible for ending the malnutrition of your freckled and bespectacled friends."

 

She stood before him and tilted her head. "You know, you really ought to consider some new material. The lack of creativity in these insults is getting tiresome."

 

Something flickered in his gaze, and she almost detected a slight upward curve to his mouth. "Duly noted."

 

 

*

 

While she definitely wasn't inebriated, that last fruity flavoured alcoholic concoction definitely had her teetering on the edge of tipsiness. And truthfully, this happy and slightly fuzzy bubble was quite a delightful break from reality.

 

The music flared around her, buoyed further by the rambunctious giggles of the women surrounding. Though she had initially been quite adamant about not wanting to celebrate, Hermione couldn’t help but feel glad Ginny had railroaded her into it in the end. The brief reprieve, and the delightful frivolity of the evening, was a perfect balm to her highly strung nerves.

 

The group of women were presently congregated around three small tables in a bar that was bursting at the seams with people enjoying a night of unrestrained fun. And Hermione was definitely one of them. She took another sip of the deliciously pink drink and scanned the group. Admittedly there were a few women there with whom she was only mildly acquainted. Why Ginny had invited them—work acquaintances she only occasionally spoke to—Hermione wasn’t quite sure. It had become apparent earlier in the evening, however, that for their part, it was the intrigue that made them accept. An opportunity to glean the inside perspective on  the elusive and rather dashing—she’d almost choked at that description—Draco Malfoy was not one to be denied.

 

Other than one fairly awkward moment, while she was still sober enough to feel the awkwardness, it had all run along smoothly. Hermione could safely say that being quizzed on her sex life with Malfoy, and fielding questions from raptly attentive witches about his _girth_ , was something she never wanted to experience again.

 

At precisely that moment, one of the aforementioned witches, Amelda Ashford, collapsed in the seat next to her. Her shockingly vibrant dress had Hermione blinking rapidly and wondering if she was, perhaps, slightly more tipsy than she’d previously thought.

 

“It’s all so romantic, isn’t it?” She sighed before slurping down more of her drink.

 

Hermione, focused intently on her own beverage, nodded in vague agreement. “Hmm, yes.”

 

“Poor Astoria though. Must be hard, what with her being so… well _you_ know…” Amelda gestured wildly.

 

No, Hermione definitely did not know, but found herself leaning in, suddenly much more interested in what the other woman had to say. If she reflected on that moment, in a more lucid state, she might have scolded herself for being just as terrible as the rest of them.

 

Fortunately, Amelda didn’t require her to contribute much at this point and continued. “I knew Daphne quite well, you see. Never spoke too much about it, but there’s definitely something going on there. Always wrapped in cotton wool as my mother would say!”

 

“She’s sick?” Hermione breathed, desperately curious now.

 

“Well, she always was quite delicate, you know. And her and Draco were always going to end up together.” Amelda shrugged as if to say that this was the common way of things. “But I supposed it must have been an obligation thing for him… well of course it must have been! He fell in love with you, after all. Must be hard on Astoria, though I suppose it’s for the best.”

 

She smiled blearily at Hermione, quite unaware of the impact of her words. For Hermione’s part, she knew very well that whatever else about Malfoy, he clearly cared very much for Astoria Greengrass, obligation or not. She suspected there was a lot more to that story, one she felt certain Malfoy would be disinclined to share.

 

“Hermione!” Ginny’s voice cut through music and the weight of Hermione’s tangled thoughts. Her friend thrust another drink in front of her, a wide Weasley grin plastered across her features.

 

“Oh, go on then,” Hermione said, accepting the fruity delight. “Just one more.”

 

 

*

 

 

Hermione reflected that the Malfoys really ought to consider placing a bench of some sort outside their gates. It was really unbecoming to make guests sit among the pebbles, particularly when wearing a skirt.

 

She wasn’t all that uncomfortable though. No, the night sky, littered as it was with a confetti of stars, was quite soothing to gaze upon. And truth be told, she felt positively floaty now, though she really did hope that Malfoy would get her message and come collect her.

 

She had arrived at the gates not long before, wobbling on unsteady feet—her shoes were clearly an instrument of torture—and contemplated whether it would be possible to throw one of the sea of stones up at his window. Logic had managed to carve its way through her brain sufficiently to tell her that, no, the distance was infinitely too far, and that with the ridiculous number of rooms in the house there was no way she would know which window was his.

 

So instead she had whipped out her wand, and in a moment of clarity, cast some pretty fabulous spell work to summon the man in question. She frowned briefly upon reflection that she wouldn’t know quite how fabulous it was until he showed up. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he might still be out! A great possibility given that he was the one she caught running an underground poker ring.

 

A burble of laughter erupted and she found she couldn’t contain it. She was getting married tomorrow, to Malfoy. Absurd! Just as the laughter began to subside, only slight chuckle falling from her tongue, she noticed movements in the shadows.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Granger get off the ground,” he muttered as he stepped through the gates to collect her. He looked down at her, a weary expression on his face.

 

“My feet don’t work,” she shrugged simply, gesturing at the offending sandals which now meant she might require amputation.

 

“Are you drunk?” he asked, eyeing her incredulously.

 

She uttered a haughty denial as she rose to her feet quite gracefully. The illusion was somewhat shattered when she stumbled.

 

Malfoy stared at her, hands on hips, and shook his head. Hermione reflected that this Malfoy, with his sleep–softened features and bed-rumpled hair didn’t seem quite so harsh and caustic.

 

Sighing in exasperation, he moved forward, leaning down to scoop her up, clearly deciding that this was the quickest route back to his bed. She didn’t put up much of a fight against his Neanderthal approach. Her head was suddenly rather woozy, and his grip was firm and his body strangely warm.

 

“Yet you still managed to send a Patronus-cum-otter gallivanting around my bed at three in the morning?” Did she detect a note of admiration? Impossible.

 

“It was all the fruit,” she murmured. “I needed more when they were asking about your, well… _you know_.” His eyebrows shot up in slight bewilderment, so she clumsily patted him on the head. “Don’t worry, I told them it wasn’t wonky.”

 

Her vision was bouncing somewhat as he hauled her up the excessively long drive way, so she couldn’t quite tell if it was gratitude that lingered in his features or horror at his nether regions being the subject of such speculation.

 

“You know,” she finally said after a moment of silence and repeated squirming, during which he cursed for her to stay still, “you’re an absolutely awful human being, with no redeeming features,” she supplied conversationally. “But this is much more comfortable than walking up myself.

 

They reached the front door and he dropped her like a lump of coal, surely bruising her buttocks as she landed in a heap of limbs on the ground. Malfoy glared down at her, an appalled expression on his face. “Let me be clear, Granger. I don’t appreciate the wakeup call, and I am _not_ your personal pack mule. If it weren’t for the fact that I have to look at you while saying my vows tomorrow, I’d have left you out in the cold overnight. Would have served you right too.”

 

Having finally regained her footing, Hermione kicked off the offending sandals and stood before him barefoot, feeling ridiculously short. Nevertheless, she found great amusement upon seeing his flushed features. She laughed in a sing song voice. “Me thinks thou doth protest too much!”

 

He looked at her then, as though she were speaking Mermish—she supposed she might as well have been for the uncultured couth undoubtedly had never heard of Shakespeare, misquoted or not.

 

He stormed off then, leaving her to trail in his wake, dragging bare feet through the opulent halls of Malfoy Manor and hoping very much that there were foot print smudges on the hallway floor by morning. Now wouldn’t that be a treat for the imperious Narcissa Malfoy.


End file.
